Judgment Day
by 2amlovesick
Summary: Summary:Three innocent people, each simply surviving until their lives intersect. One man accused of a crime he didn't commit. A second man setup to save another. A young woman whose life is threatened, hiding from a killer on the loose. Connections are made. Bonds are formed. Each living with the hope to see their own Judgment Day. Canon pairing AH M for violence/adult content HEA
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No disrespect is intended if I just tweak things a bit. No copyright infringement is intended. The rest of this story is mine.

**A/N Warning: **This story will question a man's belief in God and his church. It is not a criticism of anyone's practices or my own beliefs. It's a story of survival in extreme situations which changes the course of many lives during a very dark and sadly, little discussed period in American History. There will be violence and minor character death. This is not an instant canon couples meet and fall in love. It is told in many character viewpoints which are important to the story. If any of these subject matters are sensitive to you, please do not read this story. Thank you.

My deep gratitude to Lilith, an awesome pre-reader and sounding board. And to an incredible beta, Ficfangirl for her grammar skills and other expertise. Thank you both so much. Any errors are mine as I tend to add or change things around after the edits. The beautiful banner was created by debzdezigns. Thank you so much.

**~ Judgment *+* Day ~**

_**People always remember major turning points in their lives. I mean those specific periods in time when events affect or shape who they are. It can result from falling in love, getting married, having children, travel, the death of a loved one, or other major events. It's these exact moments when their lives either take a turn for the better or for the worst.**_

_**For me, my defining moment came in the spring of 1918. All my plans, hopes and dreams for my future vanished in the blink of an eye. I was told, believed and lived with one constant truth; if you lived your life serving God and your fellow man, you would know heaven on earth. And when your time came to shed the mortal coils that bind us to this realm, you would then be delivered to the gates of Heaven.**_

_**Now I know it was all a lie. It was at this crucial moment when my life, as I knew it—died. This is when I woke up in my own living Hell. **_

_**~ Edward Masen ~**_

**~ J *+* D ~**

**Chapter 1**

**La Porte, Texas**

**Edward**

I stride through the open church doors, onto the steps leading down to the public sidewalk, invigorated by the sermon previously delivered by Father Michael. With the sun descending rapidly behind me, I pause on the top step in the shadow of the church, breathing in the fresh air, mixed with the scent of spring flowers bursting to life. I love this time of the year. It's a time for rejuvenation of life after the deep slumber of winter past. A Black-crested Titmouse flies by with a string in its beak and then lands in a nearby tree, fortifying its nest for its future progeny in the fading light of day. The expansive sky is crystal clear, free of clouds with various shades of deepening blue in the twilight hour. It stirs the senses. I feel the residual warmth of the sun on the light breeze as it caresses my black cassock. _What a beautiful day it was the good Lord had given us._

The sermon Father Michael gave today regarding the prejudices of man was stimulating. He spoke of how we should be looking for the good in all people, no matter their skin color or heritage. A global war is raging in Europe. It's understandable that people fear for the safety of their family and friends who have been drafted and sent overseas to assist in the war efforts of America's Allies.

Lines are being drawn here in the States as well. An anti-German movement is growing. German-Americans, especially the new immigrants, are being blamed for the aggression of the German Empire. Suspicion is growing and anyone speaking German is now seen as unpatriotic or suspect. Name changes are occurring everywhere. Frankfurters are now called hot dogs. Some families are anglicizing their last names from Schmidt to Smith and Müller to Miller. Anything German has nearly disappeared from the public arena.

Father Michael is proactive and progressive in trying to stem the flow of antagonisms towards a small part of our flock with German lineage. Reminding us that we all come from immigrants and, at some point in time, our original nationality was an instigator in a war of the past. It's this ability to see the needs of our parish which I most admire in him. After the final prayer, as all the attendees start filing out, Father Michael beckoned me forward.

"Father Edward, I want you to see our flock out today," he smiles gently at me. I'm surprised by the notion.

"But, Father Michael, the parishioners look forward to your personal atten…" he cuts me off with a stern, but softly spoken voice.

"Father Edward, you are as well-loved here as I am. Soon you will be attending to your own parish and I think they want to hear of your future plans. You will be missed and I think they deserve some one on one time with you," he sighs and then chuckles. He smiles again as he continues, "I don't know how I will find another more perfectly suited young man to help me with their needs when you're gone."

My eyes mist with the knowledge I will be leaving Father Michael as well. I have been chosen to take over a small parish in Florida on the Gulf Coast. And while I'm overjoyed at the prospect of having my own flock to tend to, I won't have the guidance of this man by my side.

"Go, the parishioners are waiting," Father Michael gently nudges me, dispelling my momentary melancholy.

"Yes Father," I whisper.

As I'm about to turn around, he hugs me and murmurs, "God be with you." Then he turns away and walks back towards the altar.

I can't look at him as we separate as I fear the real possibility of tears being shed. I turn and walk towards those standing by the doors waiting for a personal audience with Father Michael. Not one of them seems disappointed that I am the one to come forward, which brought me great joy. For about forty minutes I answer questions about my future plans and listen to those asking for additional blessings for their loved ones. I'm honored, humbled and satisfied it went so well and I was able to offer comfort for those in need. Once again, I owe it all to Father Michael.

In fact, I'm indebted to him for so much more. I have always looked up to Father Mike, as I'm now allowed to call him. He's been my guiding light, mentor and inspiration, seeing me through Seminary here in La Porte, Texas. My final indoctrination is only weeks away. It's been a little over a year since I was ordained to the Transitional Diaconate. All these years I've been working towards the goal of becoming a fully ordained priest, and it's finally within my grasp. I can only hope I will be half the man Father Mike is.

I rouse myself from my reverie of Father Mike's continued support and walk down the steps with a smile on my lips, nodding to various pedestrians as I make my way towards the refectory for the evening meal. As I'm crossing the entrance to the darkened alley way which is used for deliveries to both church and refectory, I hear a low mournful sound. It stops me in my tracks. I can't see anything in the shadows and wonder if perhaps it was a strange gust of wind or a cat which caused the sorrowful noise. I wait a moment and hear nothing more.

Just as I'm about to continue on, I hear the sound again. Curiosity and concern has me cautiously making my way into the gloom. As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I make a cursory scan and see nothing which could make such a noise, until I hear a woeful cry coming from the very back corner of the church. I'm now moving more quickly as I make my way towards the sound. At first, I only see dark red material. Then a pair of legs encased in stockings comes into view with ankle boots in a style which alerts me to the fact it is a woman who is lying on the ground.

When I finally reach her, I notice her bonnet is askew with her blond hair in tangles around the ties which are digging into her neck. Her face is raw from a savage attack and the lower part of her white blouse is covered in blood. Her hands rest on what must be a wound, centered in her stomach. She appears to be unconscious, but still moans in pain. I've never seen someone so battered and bruised. I have visited hospitals and administered last rites when Father Michael could not arrive in time. I've seen people wasting away due to age or disease. But never have I seen such a display of vicious rage visited upon another human being.

I don't know what to do. All the seminarians received military training at St. Mary's from Andrew Jackson Houston, son of Sam Houston. But that was a course on the use of weapons in protecting these American shores should we be attacked by the Germans and/or their allies. I was classified as a marksman, but it is my greatest hope never to touch a gun again.

My studies haven't prepared me for this type of situation, but instinct and compassion tells me I need to try to help her. I kneel down beside her, quickly untying her bonnet, hoping it aids with the ease of her breathing. I lift up one of her hands and, oh dear God, the wound looks ugly and deep. I put my hand on the wound to try to add pressure and, hopefully, stem the flow of blood.

"We'll get you out of here. Do you hear me? You need to stay calm. I'll get you help," I frantically mumble encouragements to her not knowing if she can understand my words.

"HELP!" I yell at the top of my lungs towards the entrance way. I repeat my plea numerous times. As the minutes tick by, I wonder where all the people went who were on the sidewalk. Evening has settled in and the darkness is overwhelming. By the light of a full moon, my eyes have adjusted well enough to be able to make out her features. I don't know how long I shout, beg and plead. She joins me at times, in my desperation for assistance with her low moans of agony.

I pull up a portion of her skirt for additional padding over the wound and feverishly say a silent prayer for the deliverance of aid so this young woman has a chance to survive. Finally, after what feels like hours, I hear a man call from the entrance, "You need help?"

"YES! Please! I need a doctor. There's an injured woman who is bleeding and needs help quickly," I urgently shout back to the gentleman. I hear nothing back from the man and can only pray he is searching for rescuers.

Within minutes I see a shadow of a man. As he comes closer, I can make out that he has blonde hair, appears to be in his middle to late 20s, and is holding a black bag.

"What happened to her?" He questions as he reaches us, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. He takes note of her prone body, swollen features, unconscious state and where my hands rest—covered in her blood.

"I - I don't know. I-I wa- was walking to the refectory and heard a moan. I came down here and found her like this. She has a large wound which I've tried to pad with her skirt and have been applying pressure, yelling and praying for help to arrive. I thought no one would ever come," I stammer out rapidly, so thankful help has arrived.

"Keep your hands where they are. I need to check her vital signs," he orders.

I simply nod my head. I'm thankful it's a doctor who has arrived and I am willing to do anything which could save this poor woman. He steps across her body, so he is opposite me, drops his bag to the ground and kneels down by her head. He places his fingers on her neck for a few moments and then he gently cups her chin, moving her head towards him. He notices the red lines on each side of her neck and below her chin and looks at me.

"Her bonnet was at an odd angle and the ties were tight around her neck. I didn't know if it was cutting off her oxygen, so I untied them," I sigh, wondering if it was the wrong thing to do and again start to murmur the litany I've been uttering for her survival. He nods at me and proceeds to examine her eyes and the bruising on her face. She moans softly when he touches a spot which must cause her great pain.

He opens his bag, pulling out his stethoscope, placing part of it into his ears and the flat part on various areas of her chest. He listens intently, but the frown on his mouth and the creases on his forehead aren't encouraging. He pulls the stethoscope from his ears so it rests around his neck. He reaches for my hand, lifts up the cloth and sighs when he sees the wound. Shaking his head, he pushes my hand back down firmly to continue applying pressure. My heart sinks. I know her passing is close at hand and I quietly speak the words for last rites.

More help arrives in the form of a constable and four other men. The young doctor explains how dire the situation is and pulls a small blanket from the bottom of his bag. "We need to get her to the hospital now. We'll move her onto the blanket and use it a stretcher," he explains.

I move out of the way as the good doctor crosses over her again, spreading the blanket with the assistance of the other men. I move again, squatting so I'm above her head, offering her what comfort my prayers might give. They gently lift her onto the blanket. A sharp clinking noise is heard and her eyes spring open, dazed, confused and obviously in pain. I stroke her hair lightly, offering a gentle smile and hope. "Relax. Help is here and we'll get you to the hospital soon."

When she is resting on the blanket, the Constable reaches down and lifts a silver object. He studies it for a moment and then shows it to us. I stand for a better view of the object in his hand, which is what must have caused the wound. It's a bloody, silver dinner knife. The attacker must have dropped it. But what shocks me most is the pattern on the knife's handle. It's the same pattern as the silverware which is used in the refectory. The recognition must have registered on my face as the Constable watches me closely.

We all turn to the young woman as she becomes distraught at seeing the knife. She is hysterical, panic evident as she first eyes the Constable and then babbles about a man in black. When her gaze lands on me, she screams in pure unadulterated fear, "I don't want to die!"

With blood on my hands and a knife found by her side, the Constable looks directly at me and I know by the intensity of his glare, he has accused and convicted me of this heinous crime.

**~ J *+* D ~**

I vaguely recall being led away from the alleyway. The Constable told me I was being arrested for the assault of the young woman as he led me to the local jail. My efforts to explain what actually happened fell upon deaf ears and I was told bluntly, 'Tell it to the Judge.' From there I sat for two hours and then I was transferred to a jail in Houston.

Once I arrived, I was ordered to remove my cassock and then physically searched. I felt naked with the loss of my cassock and shoes, but more importantly my Rosary with the silver cross hanging from it. I'm lost without a cross to pray with or to give me solace. The guard informed me guiltily, "We can't let you have any personal possessions in the cell."

Feeling numb and possibly in shock, I merely do everything I'm instructed to do. When a cell door opens, I'm ushered inside and then I stop refusing to move further inside. My head is spinning from the recent events. My mind can only process one thought. How did this happen? Over and over again, it just keeps repeating, how did this happen?

Stunned, it's not until I'm left alone that my senses reel. The loud clank of the barred metal door shutting and locking behind me echoes in my mind. The putrid smell of urine reeking from the corner of a make shift toilet invades my nostrils. The musty odors of the bunk mattress and blanket are so strong, I have to breathe through my mouth. My throat closes as a thick coating of dust and mold causes me to cough, and I feel as if I can't swallow or breathe. The barrenness of the cold cinder block walls sends a chill down my spine. I'm frightened and feel so alone in the alien surroundings I find myself in.

It's such a far cry from my small room at the Seminary where I find peace and comfort. It used to be a hotel so the rooms are a comfortable size. I think of the comforts of my room – the sound of the gentle lapping of the waves of Trinity Bay; the smell of the salty air wafting through my open window; the worn beauty of my desk, polished with bee's wax to a high gloss shine; the rich, dark wood paneled walls decorated with framed pictures of Saints, The Holy Mother and Baby Jesus; my comfortable single bed with clean sheets and quilt, handmade by the Sisters of Divine Providence in Castroville, Texas, right outside of San Antonio; And the Crucifix above my head, which I prayed to multiple times a day, usually protecting me from evil.

At some point during the night, I find my way to the bunk and lay down on my back. I don't ask for food. I don't ask for water. I don't sleep. I don't move. My body is unresponsive in my present state of mind. And for the first time in my life since I was a little child, I don't pray. I can't get past my one thought - How did this happen?

With dry, unblinking eyes, my mind registers the change in light as the new day slowly seeps into the dank cell. I still don't move. A guard must have come to my cell bearing a metal tray with food. I have no energy to move from my position, still lost in my single thought. How did this happen? I only notice it after I'm jarred from the constant question by the solid clank of the cell door and a shadow retreating down the hall. I turn my head and notice the tray of food on the floor by the bars. The guard kindly left me nourishment of scrambled eggs, toast and a tin mug of water. But I am not hungry.

Still eyeing the food, my thoughts suddenly become jumbled and my breathing quickens. I'm having trouble inhaling and exhaling, and I start shaking. Where am I? Why is food on the floor? Then my mind floods with images of the young woman whom I tried to help. Did she survive? Was I in time? Did I help save her? My thoughts then turn to wondering how they can believe I would harm anyone. I'm a man of the church. I'm one who gives solace and prayers for those in need. My life's calling is to bring faith and peace, not abuse. I've never even harmed a fly or crushed a spider. I've never lifted my hand in anything more than a handshake, a gentle pat on the back or the rare hug.

I lay back on the bunk, close my eyes, try to calm my erratic breathing, the racing of my heart, and pray. I pray for her life; for her to survive and explain this misunderstanding which has led me to this cell. I pray for her soul if she succumbed during the hours after I was led away from her. I pray she finds peace from the pain she suffered and salvation in the arms of our Lord. Finally, I pray for myself. Something I have never done. But I do so now. Asking for Him to give me the strength, an innocent man, to weather this ordeal with humility and grace; to see me on my way to absolution; to grant me my one desire - to continue on with my calling in His name; to claim the parish which awaits me, where I can spread the word of His salvation and His love for all mankind.

I'm interrupted from my prayers by the sound of keys rattling in the lock of my cell door. I turn my head and standing with a guard is Father Mike. I take in his tired features, his messy blonde hair and the sad lack of the twinkle which usually resides in his light blue eyes. The laugh lines around the corners of his mouth look deeper due to the glumness of his frown. His cassock is wrinkled, as if he slept in it.

The cell door swings open allowing Father Mike entrance. I swing my legs from the bunk onto the floor and lean against the wall, to allow him room to sit. He eyes my tray on the floor and sighs deeply as he walks towards me. The guard shuts the door while reminding Father Mike, "You have 30 minutes, Father. Then he needs to face the Justice of the Peace." We both acknowledge his words by simply nodding our heads and then he leaves us alone.

"Good Morning, Father Edward. Not hungry?" He nods towards the uneaten food as he turns to sit beside me.

"No. Food is the last thing on my mind, Father," my dry throat chokes out.

He nods his head in understanding. "I did notice you were lost in prayer." Then he looks at me with confusion and concern, "Tell me what happened. I don't understand how this could happen."

"I've been asking myself the exact same question all night," I sigh. Then, taking a deep breath, I explain the events from the previous evening.

When I'm done I look at him, my eyes pleading for him to believe me. Please believe me. Father Mike returns my stare and I can see unequivocally he does. He grabs both my hands, asking, "Do you remember the scripture of Isaiah 54:17?"

It takes me a moment, but then I remember and nod my head. I quietly speak the words, "No weapon that is fashioned against you shall succeed, and you shall confute every tongue that rises against you in judgment. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord and their vindication from me, declares the Lord." I think on the words I just spoke. I look to Father Mike with confusion, "These words were a message to those who spoke against the church. I am but a man accused of a crime I didn't commit."

"But you are part of the church and the church protects its own," he smiles gently. "I've contacted the best lawyer in these parts. You've met him as he attends Sunday Mass faithfully. His name is Sam Uley. He has agreed to take your case. He doesn't believe that you, of all people, would have committed such a heinous crime. He has also never lost a case."

"A lawyer! I never even thought of that. I'm innocent. Surely the Judge will understand it's impossible that I would do something so horrendous as to harm another soul," I stammer, shocked I would have need of such assistance.

"Think of it as a precaution, Father Edward. Let's not take a chance. Shall we say a prayer before you meet the Judge?

I nod and then bow my head. I listen to the words he speaks and pray for this ordeal to be over soon.

**~ J *+* D ~**

I meet Sam Uley officially in the courtroom for my arraignment. He looks fierce - tall, well-built, but soft spoken and gentle. He introduces me to his assistant. Her name is Rosalie Hale - a tall, pretty, blonde woman with a no nonsense attitude. There are a few cases ahead of mine and Sam asks for the details of last evening. I quietly retell my story and Rose, as she asked me to call her, quickly writes down all the details. Sam knows the service ended at 6pm. He asks when the last parishioner left. I tell him around 6:30 or so. He asks if anyone saw me leave the church. I explain there were few people on the street, but I did pass some. He asks if I knew them and I sadly admit, no. Sam points out an officer who is standing with the attorney for the prosecution and asks, "Do you recognize him?"

He's tall, well built, with dark hair and dark eyes. I'll never forget him, "He's the one who arrested me last night." Sam doesn't say anything. He nods his head and I think he was testing my memory from the events of last evening.

When my name is called, Sam and I move to stand before Judge Rhys Banner. The prosecuting attorney and Constable also stand. As the attorney reads the charges against me, an officer of the court walks up to him, handing him a paper.

The charges of assault with a deadly weapon are read and Judge Banner asks, "How do you plead?"

"I'm innocent your Honor. I tried to help the woman, not harm her," I immediately answer, positive he will instantly agree this is a complete misunderstanding.

Before the Judge can comment, the Prosecutor interrupts, "Your honor. I think you should know, I will be filing additional charges in this case. I've just been notified officially that the young woman, Miss Lauren Mallory, died. This will now become a murder case."

At first my heart aches for the young woman. All her suffering was in vain and I say a quiet prayer for her soul. Then my mind processes the new allegations leveled at me and again I'm stunned. They truly believe I could or would kill that young woman?

The attorney for the State begins again. "You should know, I don't take these charges lightly. We have evidence to prove our case. The murder weapon, a knife, was found at the scene. The knife has the same markings as those used at the Church's refectory. You should also know we have numerous witnesses who heard her accuse a 'man in black' as her assailant. It's our belief she was speaking of this man, Edward Masen, Jr., and we are prepared to prove it."

Murder? I'm now accused of murder? I feel dizzy and nauseous. This can't be happening. God, save me! Please. I beg you!

"Mr. Uley," Judge Banner addresses him. "As you've just heard, the charges against Mr. Masen have changed. I've never known you to take on a client accused of murder. Because of these recently changed circumstances, I am giving you the option now to step back from this case."

"Your honor, I appreciate you giving me a chance to rescind my representation of Mr. Masen. However, I do believe in his innocence. I know the man he is and I believe he is a victim of circumstance. I will do my best to prove these charges leveled against him are false."

Judge Banner nods and accepts Mr. Uley's continued support on my behalf. "Mr. Masen, you are being charged with the murder of Miss Lauren Mallory. How do you plead?"

"I'm innocent your Honor. I tried…" I begin begging for him to understand, but I'm cut off by the gavel pounding on his desk.

"Enough. Let your lawyer plead your case for you from now on, young man. Bail is denied. You are hereby remanded to the County Jail until your trial by jury. The date is set for two months from today. Any questions?" The Judge looks at each one of us and no one says anything. He nods, "Dismissed."

And with that one word, I feel that this is what my life has become—dismissed.

**~ J *+* D ~**


	2. Chapter 2

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**My failures have been errors in judgment, not of intent."**

**~ Ulysses S. Grant ~**

**Chapter 2 **

**New Orleans, Louisiana – The day after Edward's arraignment**

**Jasper **

It's late afternoon with sunshine streaming through the window of my cabin. The rays heating the side of my face must have been what woke me. I groan as I realize I slept later than planned. I release the pillow I'm hugging, then grab it back, pulling it over my face as I turn onto my back. I stretch the muscles in my legs first and once they reach the footboard, I stretch my arms over my head and then up in the air when they hit the headboard. The bed's not long enough for me to do much else. Someday soon I'll have to invest in a custom made bed for this cabin. One where neither my feet nor my hands will hit a board. I chuckle at the thought; it would be at least ten feet long. Now _that_ would be a bed. Twisting from side to side, I'm able to crack my back and the relief from its stiffness is instantaneous. Sitting in a chair for hours on end will do that to me.

I pull the pillow from my face and place it behind my back, sitting up against the headboard, relaxing with my hands clasped behind my head. Last night was a very profitable evening. I've been coming out on top with winning hands for the last six weeks. Divesting rich and fool hearty men of their funds has increased my savings to an all-time high. It's time to make another trip to Mobile and store away my profits for the future.

Yes, I, Jasper Whitlock, also known as Jasper Grant, have quite the nest egg hidden away there. I smile at the use of the name Grant. Very few people know me by my given name. Most men who gamble will use an alias such as Smith or Jones. I put a bit more thought into it and chose the name Grant, in honor of the North's victorious Civil War General. The man who later became President of the United States. A man who believed in human rights for all, including former slaves.

To evidence his stance, he gave freedom to his only slave in 1859 and he called for the elimination of the Ku Klux Klan. A group of men who felt it was their god given right to randomly torture, hang or shoot men of color. Anyone who disagreed with them often found the Klan's calling card of a burning cross in front of their home, or their crops burned to the ground. By 1872, Grant had all but destroyed them. Despite the fact Grant was a Yankee, I admired his principals and chose to show my respect by using his name as a shield.

I learned early in my gambling career to use a false identity. I had witnessed another young gambler's interactions with a sore loser after winning a huge pot. The loser said he knew where the winner lived and he better keep his family safe. Later, I heard the winner's family died in a fire one night while he was out playing cards looking for his next big win. This was when Jasper Grant was born and Whitlock was a fond memory. It just wouldn't be smart to use my real name. Someone might track down my family plantation should I piss off the wrong person. No, that's my go to hiding place when times become rough. My paradise on earth. My home.

Chuckling out loud, I remember my earlier thought of the money hidden away. Being a gambler by trade is not conducive to depositing funds into the local banks. No, I have to literally hide my winnings here in New Orleans in various places. Thank God I have Peter to help.

Peter is the most trusted friend I have. It's still amusing to me how we became friends, considering I met him through his ex-girlfriend, Maria. They were together for about two years. He was working in one of Maria's speakeasies, as a bartender. Maria had hired a new girl, Charlotte, with silky blond hair, wide blue eyes, bright smile and positively gorgeous, to serve and keep the patrons happy who frequent her establishment. Charlotte's appearance is a complete contrast to Maria, with her dark snapping eyes, thick dark hair, dark red lips and softly rounded curves.

Unfortunately for Maria, Peter, after taking one look at Charlotte, fell head over heels in love. He immediately severed his relationship with Maria and he and Charlotte were married within weeks of meeting each other.

Maria wasn't pleased with this turn of events, but I happened to arrive on the scene at the perfect time to take the heat off Peter and Charlotte. Maria then decided she could do without Peter when she set her sights on me. She still can't hide her jealousy of Charlotte though. Charlotte wears a ring on her left hand which Maria feels was rightfully hers. The shiny little bauble made it impossible for her to work with Peter or Charlotte and their visible bubble of love.

Peter was constantly watching Charlotte and not paying attention to his job. Men were complaining how Charlotte wasn't giving them the proper attention they felt they deserved. Being a smart business woman, Maria knew Peter was too intimate with her business affairs and she couldn't afford to dismiss him outright. She suggested they both work out of her cabin in the hills, distilling corn whiskey, or moonshine as it's called in these parts, watching over her other main source of income. She still had to put up with them, but at least they would be out of her eyesight and less likely to induce the little rages she often has, which they didn't know about.

Maria; I sigh at the name. I'm going to have to do something about her. A more business savvy woman I've never met. You could even say she's ruthless in her desire for wealth, success and respect. She's a beauty, there is no denying it. She's as passionate in her love making skills and desires as she is in business. I know, we've been intimate many times during these last 11 months. But, at the end of the day, everything she does is for her own selfish gain, whether it's business or pleasure.

Although Maria has professed her undying love for me and has hinted several times how she wants our relationship to be of a more permanent nature, I'm not inclined to accommodate her. It's not me as a person she wants. She only sees my good looks as someone she can parade around with and what I can bring to _her_ table to increase _her_ holdings. Besides, I don't love her the way she wants and I honestly don't believe she loves me. She loves the idea of love. And I'm certainly not ready to become a settled man with someone so empty. Though I've been able to side step her long term desires, I know time is running short, soon I will have to tell her the answer is a decisive, _no_.

I rise from the bed, grab my pants off the floor and slip them on. Then I open my dresser and pull out a pair of clean socks. Next, I pull on my boots, grab the $2000 I won last night and walk into the sitting room. It's a warm spring day and the trend promises to continue. I like when I don't have to bundle up and forego putting on a shirt. My cabin is simple - a sitting room with a pot belly stove for warmth and a bedroom. I have an outhouse at the back and this is all I really need. Buying the acre of land and building the cabin is the only investment I've bought with my earnings. Someday, I'll have the plantation back up and running, but for now I save every penny I win. I smile to myself, thinking about the plantation again, as I walk out the door towards the outhouse. The Whitlock Plantation is very large in comparison to most. It's where I want to be. It's where my heart lies.

I reach the outhouse, enter and close the door behind me, then I bend down to pull up the corner floor board, which exposes the tin box hidden there. This is one of my hiding places. When you think about it, most people will hide their money somewhere in their home - under a mattress, in a sock in a drawer, or if they're wealthy enough, in a safe. Those would be the first places I would look. But who would hide it in a smelly, disgusting outhouse?

Another hidey hole is an old oak tree 150 yards behind the house. It was a squirrel's home, but it moved on when I kept disturbing its peace. I keep most of my savings in the cabin used to distill Maria's alcohol. Maria doesn't ever go there, but being the greedy woman she is, she would ignore the presence of Peter and Charlotte to hunt it down if she knew. Again, I smile and shake my head at the vision of her trying to ferret out where I hide my money. She's boldly asked enough times how much I'm worth and has even offered the use of her safe. That was met with a big resounding, no thank you!

She doesn't know Peter and I have become very close friends. She also doesn't know Peter and I have spent months excavating a tunnel under her cabin. It runs along the side of a hill as an escape route in case unwanted visitors happen along or Maria decides she's finished with Peter and Charlotte. You can never trust too many people in this business and in my opinion, Maria is the least trustworthy. Peter and Charlotte are too exposed to the risks related to distilling moonshine. We figure what Maria doesn't know, won't hurt her. Worst case scenario, a falling down cabin gets blown up with cheap rotgut alcohol. Peter and Charlotte are far more important than the whiskey. Yet somehow, I don't think Maria would agree with this statement.

**~ J *+* D ~**

It's later in the day when I finally make my way into the Blue Moon. This is Maria's largest speakeasy, here in the French Quarter of New Orleans. The stale smell of cigarettes and cigars, mixed with alcohol and ammonia, is a potent combination upon entry. One of her workers is sweeping the floor, another is setting up behind the bar, while another man is setting the stage for tonight's entertainment. The windows are open to air out the place, but they will soon be lowered with the heavy curtains drawn. My eyes adjust from the bright sunshine to the dim room. I see Maria coming out of the kitchen in a huff. She spots me standing by the door and glares. I was supposed to be here an hour ago for our monthly dinner and I know she's ticked.

I smile at her and wait to see which Maria will show up tonight. Will she throw a hissy fit? Or give me a seductive pout? Or will she shrug it off, knowing I won't care either way? She is so contrary; I never know what to expect. She finally lets out a puff of breath. "You're late, Jasper Grant! Dinner is cold now," she scolds.

"That's okay; I can either eat it cold or I can go to a restaurant. I've told you not to worry about feeding me." I shrug. When she asked me if I was coming to dinner earlier in the week, I said I'd try to make it. She knows when I play, I never know how long the night might turn out to be.

Anger flashes through her eyes because I don't come running when she snaps her fingers. She's used to men being at her beck and call. She demands it of her employees and for a time, Peter humored her as well. She wants and needs control of those she deems her possessions. It's always been a battle of wills between us, because I refuse to be a pet she can trot out on command. I watch as she struggles to push down her desire to rage at me. She's learned the hard way it won't get her anywhere and she will only see my backside, as I walk out the door.

She changes tactics and waves for me to follow her into the small kitchen. From the oven, with towels wrapped around her hands, she pulls out two plates she's kept warm and puts them on the stove. The food smells wonderful and my stomach growls in anticipation. I pull up a chair at the corner table which is already set with a single dark red rose in a slim vase as a centerpiece. She brings over a bottle of red wine and pours a generous amount into our glasses. Then she brings the plates filled with roast beef, mashed potatoes and carrots.

"It looks delicious. Tell Nettie I said thank you," I smirk at her, knowing she didn't make it. I used to thank her and she would act as if pleasing me was her greatest desire with her hard earned efforts. And I was happy, until I found out she has never cooked a day in her life. I have to give credit where credit is due, which now irritates her to no end. She hates it when I catch on to her little games. I pick up my knife and fork and cut into the roast beef. It practically melts in my mouth, it's so juicy and tender.

"I heard you did well last night." She ignores my jibe and settles in the chair across from me, picking up her utensils, mixing the carrots with the potatoes.

"Where did you hear that?" I ask with my brow cocked. I watch her eyes to see if she'll give an honest answer, while cutting the meat on my plate.

"A little birdie told me," she smiles superiorly. I don't ever talk to her about my winnings. It's none of her business and she's trying to turn the tables on me.

"Maria, cut the bull. Why is it important for you to know of my earnings?" I sigh, dropping my knife and fork on the plate with a clang, curious as to where this is leading.

Thrilled to have my full undivided attention, she quickly replies, "I was thinking, if you set up some of your games here, it would bring in more patrons. It would be a win-win. You at cards and me with the sales of liquor. We would be partners." She beams at me, her self-satisfied smirk curling on her lips.

"Maria, both of us run the risk of being arrested. You would have us go down together? For a smart woman, you haven't thought this through very well." My remark changed her expression instantly.

Maria now glares at me. She hates the fact that every idea she has tossed out, I've shot them down. It makes her feel less worthy. She wants me to think of her as the most intelligent woman on the planet. "I like the idea of us being partners - in both business and a more personal arrangement."

"Maria, you've known from the beginning I'm not looking for any type of partnership. I've told you I like my freedom - to be able to come and go as I please. You used to like that; what's changed?" I watch her carefully behind a mask of indifference. She's really pushing hard tonight. Why?

She shrugs her shoulders casually, but her eyes are intense. "I think it's time to look to the future. I've spent years building this business. Who am I going to leave it to? The workers? Nettie or my housekeeper? Why do you have to be so resistant to the idea of marriage?"

I'm now annoyed. She's never been this adamant about a permanent relationship. It's as if she's grasping at last straws. Or giving me an ultimatum. I don't like it. There is more to this and I can't quite put my finger on it. I need a diversion before we turn this conversation into our usual war of words.

"Look, I need to go. I have a game to attend tonight and it requires a bit of travel time," I try to cajole her. Her eyes spark and her nose flares at my plans to leave for the night and my unwillingness to continue the conversation. She tries to push down her anger again.

"I thought you would be spending the night with me," she pouts.

"Not tonight," I refuse gently.

There's a sudden shift again in her attitude and I can't quite figure it out. It's as if she's made a snap decision, but about what, I'm not sure.

"Fine! Could you at least do me a favor? Could you run up to the cabin tomorrow and bring me a few cases? Please?"

"Why me? I'm not your delivery boy. What happened to Jared?" I calmly question her request, though in my gut I know something's changed.

"I had to let Jared go." Her eyes are down and I wonder if it's true. Then she meets mine again as she explains, "He was keeping a case of 'shine' for himself from every load. He's been taken care of for now and I haven't been able to find another trustworthy man. Can't you just do this one thing for me? You shoot down or avoid everything else I suggest," she literally growls. Her boiling point has been reached.

I haven't seen Peter and Charlotte in a couple of weeks and right now I'd really like to. With the way Maria is acting I want to ensure all is well with them. I figure I can kill two birds with one stone. I finally nod my head, "Yeah, just this once though. I really don't want to be involved in _your business_," I stress.

Her eyes flash briefly with regret, sadness and then resolve. Again, I'm bothered, because regret is not an emotion known to Maria. She's never been sorry for anything. Instinctively, I know something is going down or I am. What exactly it is, or how, I'm not quite sure.

I rise from the table and quickly kiss her cheek, avoiding her lips, in farewell. Her eyes again show her thoughts. This time, it's uncertainty, resignation and hurt. It's as if Maria has finally realized we will not be business partners or a couple, as she so desperately wants.

I walk out of the bar and down the street towards my truck. I'm still wondering what Maria is up to and I'm feeling a bit paranoid, because I have the strangest feeling I'm being followed. I decide to put my theory to the test and duck into a pharmacy. From the darkened corner of the far window, I watch the pedestrians passing. A skinny, dark haired man stops before the entrance and looks in the window. There are too many shadows from the aisles and shelves for him to see much. His scan comes up empty and he reaches for the door knob, but then he forces himself to move on. Was he looking for me or was he simply window shopping and changed his mind?

I'm still unsure, but my instincts tell me he was looking for me. If I am being tailed, I know this in some way is connected to the discussion I just had with Maria. Is he the one who told her about my winnings? Is she having me followed? If so, why? Does it have something to do with her riotous display of emotions this evening? Well, there's only one way to find out.

I leave my hiding spot and walk out of the pharmacy and quickly cross the street. I spot the man again as I race to my truck. He runs to a vehicle, which I assume is his, as I immediately start up mine, jump in and merge into the busy traffic. I've only traveled a couple of blocks before I turn down a street and then into an alley. Several vehicles drive by before I spot him. He's looking forward, trying to see ahead of the vehicles in front of him and I know he didn't see me.

I back out and as I drive in the opposite direction, I decide tonight I'm going to have to forgo any ideas of playing cards. Instead, I head to my cabin to clean house. I'm positive something is up and I don't like it. She specifically asked me to go to her still. Is it a trap? Now, I'm worried for Peter and Charlotte. They need to know something is about to change.

**~ J *+* D ~**

I arrive at my cabin and start packing my trunk with my clothes and boots. I make sure nothing personal is left behind that can identify me. I walk out to the outhouse and pull up the floor board retrieving the tin. Then I retrieve the one from the tree. When I've loaded everything into my truck, I take one last look at the cabin and bid a fond farewell to my little haven in the woods. Hopefully, someday soon I'll be back.

I drive to Peter and Charlotte's new cabin. One Maria doesn't know they've built, away from the still, but on her land. As I drive up, I see shadows and grin. Peter is arming himself. When you live in the middle of nowhere and hear a vehicle approach, you're always on guard.

Since its dark, I know he can't really see me and I wait for him to walk out onto the porch. He doesn't. He has his rifle aimed out of an open window instead. I grin; he's learning. I open the truck door. "Hold it right there, mister," he hollers. His voice echoes through the trees.

"You know your voice carries really well. You don't need to shout like that," I chuckle.

"Just making sure you heard me, old man," he snickers, recognizing my voice.

"Old man. I'm two years older than you. Or should I be calling you son?" I huff at him.

"Only if I get to call you daddy," he laughs.

"Well, that isn't going to happen any time soon. Are you going to invite me in or are we going to talk like this all night?" I smile at him.

"Seeing as you've shown up at this time of the evening, I'm not sure. You do know you're ruining my beauty sleep," he cockily replies, and I can see him in the shadows fluffing his hair.

"The only beauty in that cabin is Charlotte, and if you haven't ruined her by now, then I think it's safe to say I won't either," I retort.

He barks out a laugh and moves from the window to open the door. "Jasper, it's good to see you. You know you're always welcome," he grins.

I exit the cab and shut the door moving to the back to pull out my trunk and the gunny sack I put the tins in. I turn to see Peter with a confused raised brow. "Moving in?"

I smile as I walk towards him. "No, not really. I do need a place for the night, but more importantly, I really need to discuss something with you," I add seriously.

Once I'm in front of him, I set down my trunk and hold out my hand with a grin, "I'm glad to see you're well, Peter."

We shake. "You too, Jasper. Come on inside." He picks up my trunk as I follow him in.

"Charlotte, we have company," he calls as we walk into the sitting room.

The bedroom door opens and Charlotte peeks her head into the room. Then she smiles. "Jasper, it's so good to see you," she laughs as she runs to give me a hug.

"You too, sweet Charlotte," I murmur in her hair as I return the embrace. She's like a little sister to me.

"Enough of that, old man! I don't need you trying to take my woman away from me," Peter jokes.

"Again with the old man." I cock a brow at him. "Do I need to teach you a little something about respecting your elders?"

Charlotte thumps me on the chest. "Leave him alone, Jasper. He's very protective of what's his and I don't need you two wrestling around. Last time, he ended up with a black eye," she huffs, playfully.

"Fine, but really Charlotte, maybe you shouldn't care for this loser," I grin wickedly. "You know I'll always be the winner." I wink down at her.

She laughs as she walks over to Peter and puts an arm around his waist. "He might be a loser, but he's my loser," she says, as she leans up and kisses his cheek.

I laugh out loud, because Peter's expression is a combination of pride and injury.

"I guess I'll take whatever I can get," he finally settles on a cheeky grin. Then his demeanor becomes serious. "So what brings you here, Jasper?"

We settle ourselves in the sitting room. Charlotte brings us each a glass of real whiskey and I tell them of my interesting dinner conversation with Maria.

We speculate what her ultimate reason is and we all arrive at the same conclusion. Something is about to go down. What exactly it is has our thoughts running through various scenarios from Maria being threatened and sacrificing her still, to her desire to be rid of Peter and Charlotte, to her anger at my non-committal attitude. Is it really about Jared's dishonesty or the ultimate set-up?

Whatever her ulterior motives, we decide to protect ourselves. We plan to meet, as I'm expected to, at the distillery tomorrow. Should something go wrong and we become parted, Peter and Charlotte will have access to my money. Whether it's only for safe keeping, or necessary funds to aide in their escape and survival, is up in the air.

Charlotte brings me a pillow and blanket and I settle down onto the davenport. We say our good nights and again I review all we've discussed. Any way I look at the situation, it always points to one thing. Maria is setting Peter, Charlotte and me up. Is it because her little enterprise is being threatened or is it based on a woman scorned, twice? We'll just have to see what tomorrow brings and I let sleep overtake me.

**~ J *+* D ~**

The next morning we have breakfast and then it's time for Peter and Charlotte to leave for the cabin. They're supposed to guard it 24 hours a day, every day, but Charlotte was not sleeping well. Her fear came from the knowledge that if a lantern was set too close to the fumes from the still, the whole place could go up in an explosion of fire and smoke.

This is where the original idea of excavating a tunnel came from. I understood Charlotte's fears. They needed an escape route in case of fire. For days I wandered around the hills behind the cabin. I found an area where part of the hillside had collapsed, with large boulders hiding a natural cave entrance. It was only about 20 feet deep, but as I climbed above the rocks and crested the hill, I found it was no more than 50 to 60 feet away from the cabin. We worked for two solid months digging and shoring up the tunnel.

Charlotte and Peter packed their belongings, needed in case things go badly and they have to get out quickly. It's our hope that if they do have to run, they can reclaim their other possessions at a later date.

They use the truck provided by Maria most of the time; but Peter has his own truck, parked near the hidden back entrance of the tunnel. They'll go there first and transfer their belongings and mine with my gunny sack that has the tins of money. I can't have my truck loaded with my personal belongings and bring Maria her moonshine. That would look too suspicious.

Charlotte will make her way through the tunnel and meet Peter who will drive round to the front of the still. This way, should Maria ever hear her truck was gone, or the still looked unattended, they can say Charlotte was there all along, inside the cabin.

After Peter arrives they will take the money tins I have stored there, through the tunnel and load them into Peter's truck. Before I go to the still I'll have a look around and see if everything seems normal and no one has spotted Peter's truck.

Before they leave, I hug Charlotte. "Be safe," I whisper. She hugs me tight and her face is solemn as she makes eye contact and nods her head. I can see tears welling in her eyes, but she's trying to be brave.

I shake Peter's hand. "Remember what we talked about. You get out of there at the first sign of trouble. I'll try to meet up with you here. If not, we'll either meet at the café or in Mobile, just like we planned."

"I really hope you're wrong, Jasper. I'll take care of Charlotte. You take care of yourself," he says with a grave expression. Then, because he has always liked my take charge attitude, he salutes me with a smirk; before he turns around, following Charlotte out the door.

I have a few hours to ponder more possibilities, but none make much sense. I sigh. Maria is the crux of the problem. I wonder if I'm really such a bad guy for not wanting to have a more permanent relationship with her. If that's the case, then I know I will be feeling the sting of her bite.

I've always been an honest man. I didn't cheat or use unethical means to earn my winnings. I've never gloated, nor do I berate the losers as some players were known to do. It is what it is. My gain – their loss. Unfortunately, my honesty with Maria has ticked off the wrong loser. I feel it in my bones.

**~ J *+* D ~**

Early afternoon finds everything is going along as usual at the still. We are loading the last crates when I notice subtle changes in the noises usually surrounding us here in the hills. I don't hear the birds chirping or squawking. I don't hear the forest creatures scurrying through the brush. No, the natural sounds of the woods have become silent. I know we're being watched, but I don't know if we are about to be robbed or if it's the law. I pointedly look at Peter with a smile I know doesn't reach my eyes as I suggest, "Why don't you get that bottle again. Bring it out here. I want another taste of what I just purchased to see me on my way."

Peter immediately understands my words and I can see by the stiffness of his back that he too, can feel the eyes upon us. He barks out a forced laugh. "What? You still thirsty?"

I smile lazily, hoping Peter and Charlotte have enough time to get into the tunnel. They need to get as far away as possible from what's about to happen. Peter wraps his arm around Charlotte's stiff shoulders. She instantly understood our conversation. Her body is beginning to tense and Peter spots it. As he leads her away, Peter laughingly calls over the top of her head, "We'll be back in two minutes. Don't you be going anywhere, you hear!"

I chuckle at him. When they enter the cabin, I lean against the truck's passenger door, looking to all the world as if I have all day to wait on my friends. With my relaxed stance, no one would be able to tell I'm taking count of the number of men surrounding us. Their stealth skills are clearly lacking if they assume I can't hear them. Off to my left, I can hear the heavy thud of three men who don't possess the skills to sneak up on someone as the leaves and twigs crackle and snap under their feet. To my right, I can hear the heavy, uneven breaths of two men trying not make a sound, but their adrenaline is causing them to breathe erratically. I tilt my head and notice four additional shadows swaying amongst the trees behind the cabin. The dappled sunshine glints off their rifles, casting brief appearances of light on their presence and weapons.

If Peter follows the plan, Charlotte will have lifted the hatch hidden under a hand woven rug and started down the six foot ladder. Peter will have grabbed Maria's cash box and tossed it down to her. Then he should be lighting a line of corn whiskey which will lead directly to the six stills. Within thirty seconds of lighting the highly flammable liquid, he should be down the ladder, replacing the hatch and running like the devil is chasing him.

Counting off the seconds in my head, by the time I reach 200, I see the flickering light from inside the cabin. I quietly exhale the breath I was holding. We bought enough time for them to make their escape. Seconds later, I notice the flames. So do the men who surround me. They start shouting, "Fire! Get away from the cabin." The men behind the cabin scatter left and right. I notice their attire and recognize the uniform. They are the law.

Within seconds, the cabin explodes in a huge scorching ball of flames. I immediately cover my face and head. I'm far enough away that when the heat reaches me, it only singes the hair on my head, exposed lower arms and hands. The explosion rocks the ground so hard, my truck actually moves away from me and I fall to the ground hitting my head on the door. I shake my head and briefly think about escaping, but I know if I attempt it and get caught, they could possible try me for attempted murder on the men who were by the cabin. They would assume, correctly, that I knew what was going to happen. If I act as if I'm in shock, betrayed by Peter, the most I can get is possession of moonshine with the intent to sell, also known as bootlegging. Any and all evidence that Maria owned the cabin just went up in a firestorm.

**~ J *+* D ~**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you to Lilith for pre-reading and suggestions. Thank you to Ficfangirl for her beta skills and phrasing. All errors are mine. I tend to nitpick and then post. Thank you for reading, reviews, and pms. **

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**A strength to harm is perilous in the hand of an ambitious head."**

**~ Elizabeth I ~**

**Chapter 3 **

**A week after Jasper's firestorm**

**Bella**

The vibration from the train as it picks up speed is rattling my nerves. We've just left another depot on our way to who knows where. Not knowing what's around the corner, but I'm hoping this time _he_ won't be able to track me down. I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of being afraid.

Sometimes I wish I had a backbone like Elizabeth I. A woman whose trials didn't weaken her, they made her stronger. A woman who became queen at the young age of 25 and went on to become one of the great monarchs in history. She could curse like a sailor and even wore disguises so she wouldn't be recognized. I snicker at the thought. Well, the last two things we have in common.

I too wear a disguise. Only mine is of a young man. At times I wish it were true, that I was a man. Not that I haven't fooled most people into thinking I am. There are literally only a handful of people who know the real me, my real name or my story. For the last two years, to the outside world I've been known only as Billy. A young ruffian; who can spit, cuss, and even flirt with girls if I have to, just to get a laugh out of Emmett or Seth. From those two, I've learned the finer art of fighting dirty and how to throw a wicked upper cut. With them, I've participated in a few rumbles. Hell, I even received my first shiner for my efforts. I chuckle to myself remembering the night of that particular fight—fun times.

Yes, being Billy has its perks and pitfalls. Disguised as Billy I can leave the house, with less fear of being noticed. Dressed as Billy, I've created a semblance of life. But that's all it is, a façade. Billy is not who I want to be. And the more I submerge myself in his persona the more I lose the essence of who I really am. I'm Bella! A young woman, who through no fault of my own, has lived in the shadows to stay alive; closeted in house after house, so I'm not found. So I remain unseen. Oh, how I yearn to be myself.

Now, I'm running again. Someone, from outside my hole in the wall existence, knows my real name and attached it to me. So, for the sake of my sanity, I've left the latest place I'd called home. Only this time, I'm leaving Renee and Mr. McCarty behind. Two people who have tried to keep me safe. All because of Riley Biers; a man who took one life, then swore to take mine. Once his name enters my thoughts, the past becomes the present.

**~ J *+* D ~**

My mother, Renee, is a beautiful and interesting woman. She was a happy, carefree, young school teacher in the early days of her first marriage. However, she divorced my father, Charlie, when I was two years old. Her reason wasn't because she didn't love Charlie; she did; too much. She had her whole life all planned out with Charlie and me in center stage. Charlie was a well built, handsome, third generation fisherman from a small town on the Gulf Coast of Texas and she was just fine with his occupation.

But, instead of following in his father's footsteps and continuing the family business, he chose a different path and became a recruit for law enforcement in Houston. This was not something Renee could accept, encourage or embrace. She did have sound reasons.

Renee's father had been killed in the rough and tumble early years in the City of Houston. Her mother was known as a 'Chili Queen.' Chili con carne is unique to Texas. The spices used to make this chili were introduced originally in San Antonio in the 1700's by immigrants from the Canary Islands. The frontier women loved the tangy flavors when added to their stew meat. The delicious concoction quickly spread due to women who served their creations from stands in various cities throughout Texas. Tamales with chili were the most common order of the day. Later beans were often added. Laborers counted on the chili vendors for a quick, cheap meal. Adventurous epicureans loved them. The upper classes, however, tried to chase the vendors away or get them shut down, fearing they brought undesirables to their posh neighborhoods.

On one particular day, an aggressive man was trying to charm my grandmother. She explained she was happily married, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. The man pulled a gun when my grandfather came to her defense and he was killed in broad daylight. It's the knowledge that practically every man wore a gun, which frightened Renee the most. The papers constantly reported how feuds or simple disagreements seemed to be resolved, not with words, but with firearms leading to the loss of life or limb.

Charlie begged Renee to understand how it had always been his deepest desire to enter law enforcement. She flat out told him, "I refuse to stay married to you if you're going to risk your life daily and leave me a widow with a child to care for."

Charlie didn't believe she would do as she threatened. He knew she loved him. He tried to reason with her. "Renee, I'm not going to do anything stupid to leave you a widow. I love you and Bella. You're both my life and my first priority."

"Prove it!" She demanded.

"I will prove it. I'll be home after every shift and…" he began.

"No, prove it by not doing this. Continue fishing. Your father is going to pass the boat down to you. Keep the job you have now. Don't do this to us. If you love us, don't become a lawman!" She shouted.

"Renee, I've already committed myself to taking on the position. You want me to go back on my word?" He was flabbergasted. He couldn't believe she would make him choose.

"No, Charlie. I know you and you will never go back on your word. Your pride won't allow it. But, you have to know, I won't go back on mine either. If you take this job, we are done and Isabella and I are gone," she promised and then ran to their bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Charlie never believed in a million years Renee would leave him. Charlie kept his word and so did Renee. He was served with divorce papers a month later and Renee moved us to a small town on the Gulf Coast panhandle of Florida.

**~ J *+* D ~**

I was six when Renee met and married Philip Dwyer in a whirlwind courtship. He was a good man; a wonderful step-father; smart and caring. We moved again, further away from Texas along the Gulf Coast of Florida after a few years. Phil became a partner in a law firm with Mr. Jack McCarty, which Renee felt was a safe occupation. Phil's income was such that she didn't have to work and Renee settled in to become a proper housewife and doting mother.

Mr. McCarty was a widower with a son named Emmett. He was a few years older than me and we became great friends. He became a big brother to me and we enjoyed playing and teasing each other, constantly.

By the time I was seven, Phil and I had a standing Saturday afternoon date. He would take me to lunch and then we'd go to either a park or the beach. It was his way of giving me his undivided attention. Showing me how much he cared and considered me his own daughter.

When I was twelve, we were headed back from the park when disaster struck. A charlatan came to town and set up a podium and a sandwich board, proclaiming the virtues of Stanley's snake oil—produced by Clark Stanley, the 'Rattlesnake King' - in the center of the town plaza. It was a cure all for what ails you. When no one came forward to purchase his wares, he became belligerent and provoked the townspeople by declaring them all ignorant fools for not understanding the value of their lives. The charlatan demanding the people's attention pulled out a gun and started firing off shots into the air. This did get the citizens' attention and they too began brandishing their own firearms, trying to scare him off.

Phil pulled me away from the crowd for safekeeping. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders, keeping my face turned into his side to prevent me from witnessing the hostile events. The ringing of gunshots made me so nervous at one point, that I turned my head further and noticed the man behind us. This man raised his pistol and took aim, but not at the charlatan. I watched as if in a bad dream, the ones you might have of floating down a lazy river until you realize you're in raging waters and are about to go over a waterfall. He was so close it didn't seem real. I watched him pull back the hammer. I heard the shot. I saw the smoke. Then I felt the impact as it hit Phil in the back. Never taking my eyes off of the man, I shook my head to clear the nightmare. I felt Phil still holding onto me and then I was trying to hold up his slouching form, as I screamed to high heaven. The man took aim again, this time I was his target. I fully expected to feel the impact, but for some reason it never came. He looked at the gun in his hand and then at me, cursed and took off running.

Trying to hold Phil up, I turned and saw the crowd's attention was still on the charlatan. They watched him stumble when he fired his last shot. It ricocheted off of a statue close to Phil and me. Heads turning, the crowd watched as Phil slid from my grasp onto the ground. His life's blood seeped from his body and spread as it soaked into the dry ground. Thinking the charlatan responsible, the mob mentality of the good citizens was instantaneous. When they turned back to the charlatan, they were hell bent on revenge.

Someone grabbed a rope from a parked hay wagon. Four men rushed the charlatan; three holding him, while one wrapped one end of the rope around his neck, then threw the other end over a thick tree branch. They propped him on his podium step ready to kick it out from under him. The crowd shouted encouragements to the men holding the charlatan and jeered and screamed at him for his evil actions.

I was torn in different directions. I wanted to help Phil, not realizing he was already gone and also wanted to help the innocent charlatan. Then I noticed the gunman again as he rounded a corner, anger set in and I screamed, "STOP," so loud I had everyone's attention. I yelled at them. "It wasn't that man who shot Phil! It was Riley Biers!"

**~ J *+* D ~**

Once the error was understood, the citizens immediately released the charlatan from his bindings. Their guilt at almost hanging an innocent man tempered their reactions and Riley was properly arrested.

I had met Riley Biers once when he was invited to dinner. He was an intelligent man, but he held a deep grudge against Phil and Mr. McCarty, because they wouldn't hire him. According to Phil, Riley had been making a name for himself as a good lawyer until Dwyer and McCarty came to town and set up an office. They offered more services than he could provide and over time his clients were moving to the new firm. Riley, unhappy with his loss of income, was spending more time in his cups instead of his own office, causing a further decrease of his client base. His alcohol addled mind blamed everything on the two lawyers and he snapped. When he saw Phil in the middle of the ruckus, he seized his opportunity for revenge.

I was the sole witness at the murder trial. Mr. McCarty made sure justice was served. He was Phil's partner after all and he felt he owed it to Renee and me. If it wasn't for Mr. McCarty giving me strength and encouragement, I'm not sure I would have been able to explain what happened. The image is burned in my mind, but to speak the words aloud, difficult.

Riley was convicted and had a date set with the gallows. After his sentencing, he was asked if he wanted to speak any words to the family. His cold gaze locked with mine as he vowed, _"I will remember this day, Bella. And I promise this; not only will you remember me, but you will see me again,"_ The bailiff rushed to try to shut him up and remove him from the courtroom. He continued his tirade. _"You better hide and hide well little girl, because I will find you and when I do, you will pay with…"_ were the last words heard as he was pulled out the courtroom doors. My mind finished his sentence though. _Your life_ was not heard, but his intent was clear. The Judge, his lawyer and the courtroom were stunned. We all expected an apology, or remorse, at the very least; but never a threat. I believed him with every fiber of my being and it scared me to death. As selfish as it was, I prayed for the day he would meet his end. Only then would I feel safe.

After Phil's death, Renee, having lost her husband in the way which was her greatest fear, was catatonic. She was not mentally capable of easing my fears or giving me the comfort I needed after witnessing the travesties of Phil's death or in court. It fell to me to see to her needs as best as a frightened young girl could. Mr. McCarty tried to give me solace and support. But, being a single man for far too many years, he found himself out of his element. Emmett was an independent fifteen year old boy, whom Mr. McCarty taught from an early age to be a man and not a sissy. Thankfully, our close friendship meant Emmett was there to give me the help and support I desperately needed.

Later we received more devastating news. On his way to the prison where the hangings occur, one of Riley's guards accidently, or conveniently, left one of the doors to the paddy wagon ajar. Riley made good his escape and I fear he will make good on his promise, as he is still on the loose.

When it became known Riley had escaped and was on the run, Mr. McCarty made a snap decision. He told me he'd made a vow to himself for Phil's sake, promising he would personally take care of Renee and me. He ordered me to pack all our belongings and moved us all to a small town on the Atlantic Coast of Northern Florida.

Mr. McCarty stayed in contact with the Sheriff from the town where the incident occurred. Through the years, reports of Riley sightings, or private investigators making inquiries into the case, were forwarded to Mr. McCarty. Each time it instigated a move. After relocating several times, we found ourselves on the southern tip of Florida, where we've lived for the past two years.

Emmett has been such a comfort. Always lending me a shoulder to cry on or vent my anger at the injustice of it all. Each move we've made he's never complained. Setting aside his own wants or desires and putting me first. How do you repay someone for unselfishly giving up a home, school, friends and once even a girlfriend? You can't. It's an impossible feat and the sad reality is; he's doing it again.

The only difference is this time we're running without our parents. Emmett, his best friend Seth and my best friend Alice are the ones venturing out on our own. It's Alice who inspired me to take chances. It's Alice who taught me how to live a halfway normal life. Something I was too scared to try on my own. I'll always appreciate the time we lived in South Florida. It was there, I met Alice.

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**I have an almost complete disregard of precedent, and a faith in the possibility of something better."**

**~ Clara Barton ~**

**Alice – On a northbound train from Florida**

I know what Bella, or should I say Billy, is thinking right now. Her furrowed brow is a dead giveaway. Anytime her mind fears being found by Riley, she slips back into a frightened state of self-preservation. She thinks if she can remember the past and recall Riley's face, she'll be more aware of her surroundings. Her carefully built walls return and she barely lives a half-life. It's my hope our next stop will set her free and give her the strength to live life to the fullest and then maybe she can stop being Billy. Even though the disguise was completely my idea and it's helped her escape the confining shelter of her home, she's not really happy. I know I couldn't live being someone I'm not. I remember how afraid I was when we first met over two years ago.

**~ J *+* D ~**

It all came about because I was a runaway at the age of seventeen. My mother was diagnosed as suffering from delusional paranoia. I had been taking care of her since my father up and left us when I was eight. He couldn't handle all her accusations and bouts of crying for no logical reason. Instead of taking me with him, I was instructed, in no uncertain terms, to take care of her. I was daddy's little girl, so I did.

I couldn't go to school. It fell to me to try to put food on our table. Heck, my mother couldn't work. Who would hire a person who was afraid of her own shadow? I could just imagine it. A customer walking into a store, the tinkling bell announcing their arrival; would more than likely send her scurrying into a corner; cowering in fear. Any noise was bound to set her off.

We lost our home when I was eleven. I found us a shack on the outskirts of Biloxi, that cost $50 a year to rent. It had a small wood burning stove which we used for heat in colder weather and I always had a soup, or if we were lucky, a stew, simmering in a pot. We had one kerosene lamp and an outhouse at the back.

Anything of value was sold through the years to help us get by. My mother would occasionally forget when something was sold. Sometimes, she'd run outside screaming and tearing at her hair crying about us being robbed. Other times, she'd scurry onto her mattress and hide under the blankets.

But when I came home one day from working as a dishwasher in a grimy café, to a rifle pointed at me, I'd had enough.

**~ J *+* D ~**

That evening my mother took things to extremes. I had only walked five feet into the cabin, taking off my coat to lay it on my mattress. I glanced around and froze when I saw my mom in her corner with a rifle in her hands. Her blank eyes never recognized me as she raised it up and fired off a round. Luckily for me, it was high over my head. Never taking my eyes off her, I dove to the floor as she took aim again. I snapped. One of her shoes was lying on the floor next to me and I flung it at her. I don't know what a flying shoe looks like to a delusional paranoid person, but it might be something along the lines of a hawk or bat. It scared the crap out of her and she leaped up, screaming bloody murder as she tried to shoot the shoe dead, missing again.

Once she was out of bullets, I got up, ran over to her and grabbed the shotgun out of her hands. I didn't know where the rest of the bullets were, but I wasn't going to let her load it again. Next thing I felt was her fist connecting with my jaw and again I fell to the dirty floor. She jumped on top of me and gave me a thrashing like I'd never felt before. I tried to ward off her blows as she screamed and cried the whole time how I'm not going to steal from her again. Finally, her strength gave way to exhaustion as she pushed herself up off my chest, walked over to her mattress and collapsed onto it. I watched as she cried into her pillow about teaching thieves not to steal from her and fell into a deep sleep. I exhaled a heavy breath as pain coursed through my body, closed my eyes and let sleep claim me.

**~ J *+* D ~**

It was pitch black outside when I returned to the land of the living. I don't know how long I laid unmoving. I hurt everywhere - my face, shoulders, chest and stomach. I raised one of my hands and rubbed my nose gently sending sparks of pain through my head. When I pulled my hand back I saw specks of dried blood and wondered if my nose was broken. I attempted to breathe through it and choked on the blood and phlegm as I swallowed. I rolled over and through half swollen eyes I watched my mother sleep peacefully for a bit. She had a Cheshire cat grin on her face and it disgusted me. She used to be so beautiful. She used to be fun and caring. She used to be clean. She beat the crap out of me and smiled after. It wasn't her fault, I knew this, but it still made me angry.

This wasn't the first time I'd taken a beating, but it was the first time she shot at me. I might not be so lucky the next time I walked in the door. The sad reality was, when she woke she wouldn't even remember what happened. She lived in her own little fantasy world and didn't know who I was anymore. That was what hurt the worst. I was a non-entity to the only parent I had left. Everything I'd tried to do had been for naught. I couldn't continue to do it. If I didn't try to save myself, I feared I would end up just like her or dead.

I struggled to get up off the floor. I needed to wash. I made my way to the bureau; it was the last piece of furniture we owned. On top it held a pitcher and bowl. Luckily, there was a small amount of water and I poured it over a rag. Without a mirror to know if I'd wiped most of the blood off, I did the best I could. At least the cool, wet rag felt good on my eyes as I let it rest on them for a few seconds. After gently cleaning my cheeks and nose, the water was too red to continue using. I sighed to myself. I felt so weak and hoped I could get to the creek without any difficulties.

I quietly went to my corner of the room and pulled off the gunny sack I used as a pillowcase. I stuffed in the few ragged clothes I owned, my sketch book, and what little money I'd saved. I looked at the sack and shook my head. Not a lot to show for my seventeen years but what's in there is mine. I glanced back over to my mother's corner and she hadn't moved. Still the same contented smile on her face. Tears again filled my eyes; so much loss...of love, happiness and time. Life surely couldn't hand me something worse than this.

I quietly made my way to the door never dropping my eyes from her face. My tears stung the cuts and abrasions on my face. It created a new pain which throbbed with the beat of my heart. I was truly alone. I had to accept this as I opened and shut the door gently behind me.

The cool evening air was balmy on my face as I slowly breathed in the fresh air. I only took a moment to gaze at the closed door and whispered, "Good bye, Mother." With one last look at the shack, I burned the memory of the sleeping woman in my mind. I hefted the gunny sack over my shoulder, turned and walked away as I headed to the creek to clean up before I started my journey.

**~ J *+* D ~**

For days I wandered through hills, valleys and woods. Foraging during the day, I found fruits, nuts, wild sweet potatoes and onions. When I came to a town, I hid from any and all people. Mostly, I ran around the outskirts. Once, I noticed laundry hanging from a line and stole a pair of britches and a shirt about my size. It seemed easier to go unnoticed if I dressed like a young man. Another time I happened upon two boys skinny dipping and 'found' a pair of socks and nearly new boots lying unattended. My shoes had seen better days and didn't offer protection from sharp rocks. The thick soles and heel of the boots would last for months.

Days turned to weeks. I slept in sheds, barns and under trees, until one day I happened upon a train terminal. The air was hot, dry and dusty in the clearing as I watched for hours while cargo was transferred from trains to trucks and from trucks to trains. I wondered about the final destinations of the various vehicles. Then I pondered what my final destination might be. I still didn't have a plan. I just needed to find somewhere I could be safe and comfortable. I was flying by the seat of my stolen, dirty britches.

I noticed men just as down on their luck as me across the tracks. Some stood in groups of two or three. Some were lying down along the bank of the hill. I cautiously made my way over to a solitary man, squatting down on his heels, chewing on a piece of grass. He was keeping his eyes on the train workers. He never shifted his position, nor took his eyes off the workers, so it surprised me when he asked in a deep gruff voice, "Where're you thinking about going little girl?" His mouth barely moved as he spoke and he was statue still. His question caught me unprepared. I was surprised he easily saw through my disguise. Since I hadn't determined a destination, I answered with the first thing that came to mind.

"Southeast," I blurt. "I have family waiting for me in Florida," trying not to give anything away.

His mouth and the grass twitched. "You're going to have to get better at lying if you want people to believe you," he chuckled lightly. "I'm not going to hurt you little one, but I strongly suggest you don't try to make friends with anyone in this area. Three men have already commented on you being alone. I've been keeping my eyes on them, but you need to stay away from all the men here or you'll find yourself in a situation you won't be able to get out of," he sighed.

"Even you?" I boldly asked. He seemed so kind, and was giving me good advice.

"Yes," he barked out with a laugh; "even me." When he didn't continue, I became curious as to why.

"Well, you don't seem like the bogeyman or the big bad wolf," I tried to sound fearless, but even to my own ears, I sounded small and weak.

If he noticed, he didn't give any indication as he answered, "Those are the makings of nightmares and fairy tales. You live in the real world, don't you? And we all have our own secrets, even you." His eyes swept around us and I found myself doing the same, taking note of the men I spotted earlier. None of them were coming closer. When he seemed satisfied all the other men were accounted for, he continued, "Every man you see out here on the edge is either running away from something or someone. Same as you, I suspect." For the first time I saw his face, which was mostly hidden from view by his hat. He seemed younger than I thought. His features were pleasant, kind but hard.

"Let me give you some advice. If a man won't make eye contact with you, it's usually because he's hiding his face. Now hiding their face means they are wanted, usually by the law. The only time they will show their face is if you have something they want; your money, clothes, food, or in your case, your person to satisfy their needs. Now you don't look like a loose young woman and my guess is you're a runaway." He paused as he pointedly stared at my clothing and gunny sack. I didn't realize I was so obvious.

"Those men," he turned his head slightly and jutted out his chin to show who he meant, "carry knives and some might have a gun. There's not a lot you can do to get away from them if you get too close. So stay away from them for your own good."

"Even you?" I squeaked once more. He doesn't look threatening to me and this is making me a tad bit nervous. What if he was a cold blooded murderer and I chose the wrong man to talk to?

"Yes, even me," he repeated, and watched my eyes as I took in his answer. I suddenly felt fear racing through my body and shuddered. I tried to paste my face into a mask of indifference, but he saw it for the feeble attempt it was.

"That's it, little one, never show fear. When you do, your weaknesses become visible." He nodded his head in approval. "I will ease your mind a bit. I have never harmed a woman and I don't intend to do so now. I'd have to tell my wife and she would be the one to end my days for me." He chuckled lightly, with a gleam in his eye. He must love his wife very much.

He turned back to me, his eyes and voice serious, "But, just being in my presence is dangerous for you. I'm wanted for many reasons…dead or alive."

What do you say to that? I looked at him as he watched my features, maybe wondering if I would scream, run away or faint. I did none of them. I maintained eye contact while somberly asking, "Do you want me to leave?"

He looked mildly surprised and chuckled lightly. He grinned widely as he asked, "You really headed to Florida?"

"I'm headed wherever one of those trains goes. I really don't care, just as long as it's far away." I shrugged my shoulders, this time with real indifference.

"Well, I _am_ headed to south Florida. You're welcome to keep me company and I can protect you. The name's John Ashley, I'm also known as the King of the Everglades, or some call me the Swamp Bandit. Pick your poison on whatever you want to call me," he too shrugged his shoulders, but kept a careful watch on my face.

"Well, Mr. Ashley, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Mary Alice Brandon. I prefer Alice and I would love the company. But, fair warning, I don't know how to ride the rails, as I've heard tell it's called, but I'm willing to learn," I smiled, pleased to have company.

He smiled back and told me what I needed to do and when we needed to move. After two days of travel we not only made it to Florida, but I gained a heap of knowledge about the type of man he was. He's definitely a criminal wanted by the law for murder, bank robbery and rum running. He's also a part time pirate, which I found exciting and fascinating. He learned about my family life as well. He offered to let me stay with his family, but I felt the need to make my own way from here. He left me his address, with the understanding that should I ever need help, I should find him. We parted as friends.

I made my way to the closest town. On the outskirts, I found a shed in the backyard of one of the first houses I came to. John had given me the last of his cheese and bread so I made myself comfortable, ate my meal and settled in for the night.

**~ J *+* D ~**

I awoke in the morning to the humming of a beautiful voice. I felt privileged as I listened to the voice singing some sort of operatic melody. The voice faded away and I rose to listen at the door. No longer hearing any sounds, I slowly opened it. In front of me was a clothes line filled with women's undergarments and dresses. I was filthy and smelly in my boy's clothing. I yearned to be clean again and I really wanted to wear a dress. I walked to the still very wet, clean smelling clothes, afraid to touch them with my dirty hands.

Nevertheless, I raised my hands to unpin some of the undergarments. Just as I was reaching to borrow one of the dresses, I hear the voice, "Hey, stop that!"

I pulled the dress from the line and ran for the shed. My hope was to have enough time to grab my gunny sack and high tail it out of there. I reached the shed, opened the door, bending to grab for the sack and then I was pushed forward by the door landing on my back side as it closed shut behind me.

"Emmett, I need you!" I heard the low sweet voice turn angry.

Oh lord, I thought. I was in so much trouble. I should have gone home with John. I could have had a nice bath by now, food in my stomach and maybe clean clothes. I could be safe. I tried pushing on the door, but felt the weight leaning against it. I was trapped. In the dull light I looked for another way out. The shed looked awfully sturdy, with no windows, only a few cracks between the wood where the sun created motes of light. Now I was probably going to jail. How stupid could I be? I traveled all this way for nothing. Stupid I tell you, just plain stupid, I raged inwardly at myself.

"What's wrong, Bella? Are you okay?" Someone with a concerned, deep masculine voice approached. Then he paused, and I imagined him looking at the girl leaning against the shed door. "What's in the shed? Did you catch an animal?" Relief and curiosity was evident in his voice.

"It's a person, Emmett. A person who was trying to steal my clothes," her accusatory low voice clearly showed her determination to confront me. "I barely saw him or her as he or she ran in there. That's when I called you. The person is not big, but I need you to help me get my clothes back." Yep, she was angry. I probably would be, too, but still, I really didn't want to go to jail.

I decided I better speak up before I angered the man also, "Look, I'm sorry. I really am. I'm dirty and I just wanted to wear something clean for a while. I know it's wrong to borrow without permission." I will grovel, but I refuse to say the word steal. John taught me never to admit guilt. "I'll give them back, I promise, if you don't have me sent to the hoosegow," I desperately pled.

I don't know what happened on the other side of the door, but after a minute, it slowly opened. I blinked at the two shadows in the bright sunlight and one was huge. I gulped and decided it was better to stand still, than attempt to get away from him. I could've taken the girl though. She was not that much taller than me.

When I could make out their features, the big, dark haired guy with laughing blue eyes was smiling at me as he took in my appearance. "You caught a fairy, Bella. A little pixie," he teased.

I found no humor in his comments and, as irrational as it was, I kicked him in the shin. He groaned, rubbing the spot as he looked down at me again. A smirk was now on his handsome face and a twinkle resided in his eyes, "Not a fairy then, a gnome, an imp or a tiny ogre, maybe?"

The girl, whom I assumed was Bella, started laughing at him and I found the sound soothing and carefree. It lightened the situation and for a moment, I didn't fear punishment. She caught her breath while shaking her head at him, causing her shiny brown hair, the morning sun highlighting hints of red, to bounce around freely. I looked at her lovely heart shaped features. Gorgeous brown eyes, a pert nose and generous lips still tilted up in a becoming smile.

Her keen eyes looked me up and down and instantly I was worried again. I knew I stunk to high heaven. Even I could smell the foul odor of dried sweat, covered in a thick layer of dirt. She stretched out her hand. "I'm Bella. And you are?" She smiled at me with genuine kindness.

I wiped my hand on my dirty pants and then looked at it. It was still filthy and I hesitated to take her hand. She would have none of it though, as she caught my hand gently in hers. Surprised, I shook hers willingly. "Mary Alice Brandon…Alice," I replied quietly, giving my full name so there was no doubt that I was being honest with them.

"Alice, it's nice to meet you. This goofball is Emmett," and she let go of my hand as Emmett held out his. I took it warily, but he held mine gently, and I'm relieved it wasn't crushed.

"Emmett, I'm sorry about the kick. I have a quick temper when under stress, but I'm trying to work on it," I groveled. He was still holding my hand and I wasn't taking any chances.

"No problem, short stuff. Bella has been bruising my shins for years," his grin grew.

"I can't imagine why," I boldly declared, instantly quashing my apology, causing Bella to laugh again.

Emmett chuckled also, "Oh, I bet you have a pretty good idea why."

The next thing I knew, Bella took my hand in hers again, asked me to follow her and ordered Emmett to grab my things. She pulled me across the yard, through the door into her home, leading me to a bathroom where she started a bath. Holy smokes, it'd been so long since I'd seen indoor plumbing. Then she handed me a towel, wash cloth and soap that smelled of lavender. I sighed, just at the thought of an actual bath. She left for a moment and returned with clean undergarments and a lovely blue dress. She then smiled at me and insisted, "Relax, I'm not going to harm you or notify the authorities." Then she stepped from the room, closing the door gently behind her.

The tub looked so inviting. It didn't take me long to remove my grimy clothes, and I took the first real bath I'd had in years. After a long soak and a complete scrub down from head to toe, I dried myself and put on the first clean clothes I'd worn in ever so long. Looking back into the tub, I stared at the grey water and the ring which had formed. I had been unbelievably dirty. Pulling the plug with the chain, I released the water and started looking around for cleaning supplies. There was no way I could allow anyone to clean up my mess. I found a scrub brush and some baking soda, spending a good five minutes removing all traces of the runaway.

When I came out, Bella was in the room across from me and beckoned me to sit on her bed. She patiently brushed out my rats' nest which had been hidden under a cap I had acquired along the way, plaiting my long hair into a single braid. I finally felt like a girl again and I silently vowed right then and there, to never ever look like a boy again.

Once she's satisfied with the results, she gets up, reaches for my hand, and leads me to the kitchen table forcing me to sit across from Emmett. He raised a brow at me and then whistled. I actually blushed and then he ruined it by laughing. Bella lifted the lid of the pot on the stove and ladled chili into bowls she had waiting on the counter, and then brought them to the table with a fresh loaf of sourdough bread. Emmett quickly tore off a chunk of bread and handed it to me. I nodded my head in thanks and could only stare at the food in front of me. I watched as they dug in. Then immediately rushed to catch up and finished before both of them. I can honestly say it was the best meal I ever tasted.

From that moment on, I made new friends and lived in a real home. I've never regretted being a runaway or 'borrowing' Bella's clothes. It was when Bella started wearing my 'borrowed' clothes that she started to have a life of her own.

**~ J *+* D ~**


	4. Chapter 4

Lilith and Ficfangirl - you both are incredible - Thank you so very much.

To all those who are following, pming and reviewing. You make my day.

This chapter has a lot of necessary history as to where the story is going. I hope you enjoy it.

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak." **

**~ William Shakespeare ~**

**Chapter 4**

**The morning of Edward's arraignment**

**Rose **

While the tall case clock chimes 8:00 am, I unlock the office front door, hang up my hat and coat, stuff my gloves in the coat pocket, take my seat behind my desk and the office is officially opened for business. With the last toll of the chimes resonating through the room, I begin to sort through the mail, when I hear the light tinkle of the bell announcing someone's arrival. I'm surprised because we don't have an early appointment scheduled and most of our clients don't arrive until well after 10:00 am.

As is my habit, when I look up I immediately take in the new arrival's clothing. Clothing can tell you a lot about a potential new client, such as whether they have money for whatever service they require or will ask for pro bono. What I see is a first. Never have I seen a man of the cloth enter our business. This man, however, has the most desolate look I have seen on a human being's face in a long time. I easily recognize him, having met him before, and he usually looks so serene.

He stops at the entrance, as if unsure what exactly he's supposed to do now that he's arrived.

"Father Michael. Welcome to the office of Sam Uley, Attorney at Law. How may I help you?" I smile gently, using my standard greeting in an attempt to put him at ease.

He acknowledges my welcome, thankful he can at least answer a simple question. "Thank you, Miss Hale, I'm hoping I might have a few words with Mr. Uley. Is he available?" He fidgets and anxiously runs a hand through his blonde messy hair.

Sam Uley is the best attorney in Houston and I'm his silent partner. Sam had need of a partner with an established firm or someone with funds when he first arrived to start his practice. I knew his wife Leah from high school and we formally met at their wedding. In fact, their wedding was officiated by Father Michael.

Four years prior to our fateful encounter, I was a bored socialite. My parents were well to do and I was just drifting, uninterested in the egotistical, wealthy people surrounding me. I craved excitement. My mind needed stimulation, and the notion of marrying a materialistic man and having kids just wasn't my idea of a fulfilling and enjoyable future.

When my parents passed, I was left with a bank account that could choke an elephant and no direction for my time, talent and money. After many months of soul searching, I decided, since I understood people and the workings of their minds, I could use this instinct for the betterment of mankind. It was then I decided I wanted to become a lawyer and enrolled in college. I was the only female attending one of the most prestigious universities my money could buy entrance to. I graduated at the top of my class. I was even the first female valedictorian. It was my pleasure to give the final speech these men who despised my intellect would ever hear, from their glory days at university. I was riding the crest of a wave, swept up in the excitement of all the new possibilities available to one of the best and brightest.

And then my wave crashed against the shore and simply receded back into the deep vast ocean. No letters from the top law firms awaited me. Not a word from even the lowest of firms asking about my plans. Absolutely nothing. It was as if my wave washed me onto the shore of a deserted island.

Not one to sit idly by, I decided I would make my way on my own to prove my worth. It became obvious, when I opened the doors of my private practice, my gender wasn't going to win over many clients. A man would enter my office, take one look at me, and either try to cozy up to me or laugh his ass off. I decided after two months I needed a partner. A male partner.

After Sam and Leah's wedding, I was invited to their new home in La Porte, a small coastal town in Texas. Our conversations led us to his longing to start his own practice and make use of his recently completed education.

Sam was impressed with my knowledge, diploma and ability to size up a person. He asked if I might be interested in working with him as an investigator. He's book smart and knows the law inside out, but lacks people skills. I would rather inveigle information out of people than write briefs. The idea was so intriguing, I decided to give it a go. However, I wanted the office to be located in Houston and not in a quiet little beach town. He agreed and we struck a bargain. His name would hang on the shingle, but we would split the profits 50/50.

In the three years since we opened our practice, Sam has never lost a case. I take great pride in the fact that, in part, this is due to me. We are attached at the hip so often, people are under the impression we're a couple, or at the very least, lovers. I snort to myself at the thought, as I maintain eye contact with Father Michael. I can clearly see this is his opinion also.

While Sam may be an attractive man, people tend to forget he is married to one of my dearest friends. Leah knows Sam and I work well together, but there is nothing more to our relationship than friendship and work. His sons, Randall and Benjamin, know me as Auntie Rosie. It's probably the closest I'll ever come to having kids of my own. I don't think there is a man out there who would have the gumption to take me on. I don't take any crap, and men only want docile little women who will do their bidding at the drop of a hat. That's never going to happen with me.

Pulling my mind back to our visitor, who is becoming more agitated by the second by my failure to answer, I sweetly smile, "Let me see if he has a few minutes, Father Michael. Please, have a seat." I wave towards the davenport.

He nods again as I rise from my chair and walk to Sam's office. Sam's usual habit is to arrive before I do to sort his cases for the day and I can hear him rustling around through the wall. I knock quickly, turn the doorknob and open the door, entering without permission. Sam's office has two cherry wood paneled walls with built in shelves filled with law books from floor to ceiling. He has a large picture window behind his desk with a lovely view of a park. Two oak filing cabinets on either side of the window match his partner desk. I snicker to myself, it's a well-appointed room and would be inviting if it wasn't for his cluttered desk, which has case files stacked up in piles and law books scattered everywhere. Two client chairs, opposite his desk, are piled high with more files. He looks up with raised brows as I enter. He hates how I never wait for his permission to enter and I smirk, as usual.

"You have an interesting visitor this morning, Sam. Have you been a naughty boy?" I wiggle my brows at him.

He looks at me with a questioning glance. "Why would you say that? I just got in ten minutes ago. Not too much trouble I could have gotten into in that short time," he laughs, while looking for a file.

"Well, you have a very distinguished and agitated visitor," I smile.

"Who?" I have his undivided attention now and his curiosity is high.

"Father Michael, from La Porte. Are you sure you didn't take money from the collection plate? Miss a confession?" I continue my teasing.

Surprise registers in his eyes, "Father Michael is here?" He tilts his head. "Bring him in, Rose. What are you waiting for? No wait." He looks at his desk and visitor chairs, then shakes his head. "I'll go out and meet him." He gets up from his desk and trips over one of his law books, cursing under his breath.

"Be careful with that mouth of yours. There's a priest in the building," I chide him.

He glares at me, and then follows me from his office into the reception area to a pacing Father Michael.

"Father Michael, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?" Sam smiles as he holds out his hand to shake Father Michael's.

"Strange times are upon us, Sam, and I need your help," he quietly states, while shaking his head.

"Well, have a seat," Sam requests, pointing to the davenport and follows Father Michael as he takes a seat. I grab a new bound book with blank pages, which I use for each case to take notes in. As the conversation begins, I start writing.

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**I know no method to secure the repeal of bad or obnoxious laws **

**so effective as their stringent execution." **

**~ Ulysses S. Grant ~**

**Jasper**

**Minutes after the firestorm**

The blow to my head left me rattled and woozy. As the noise and fireball of the explosion recedes, I slowly get up off the ground and stare in disbelief at the massive bonfire which now consumes the cabin. The roof had completely blown off and an enormous amount of flying debris now rains down around me. The smell of singed hair has me quickly rubbing and shaking my head to remove any embers. Then I spend a few moments checking for other hot spots on my clothing. After a brief inspection, I return my gaze to the remains of the cabin searching through the flames that lick up the skeletal posts which once shored up the building, hoping not to see signs of Peter or Charlotte. I hear the rush of approaching footsteps before I see the men who suddenly swarm around me. Guns and rifles are leveled at me from every direction.

One man yanks me up by my arm and pulls me away from the truck. Embers and ash are still floating around, landing on or near the truck and I suspect they fear another explosion. And rightly so. I willingly let them pull me a good 100 feet away from the truck. Once we're at a safer distance, various men begin yelling orders at me. "Raise your hands above your head, get down on your knees, and lie down on the ground." I roll my eyes at them. Do I really look like I have a death wish and would try to take out the seven men surrounding me? I snicker to myself as I'm searched for any weapons. I lay on the ground with my hands behind my head and look back up at the burning cabin. It's no longer a raging inferno, as it slowly sizzles itself out. I haven't seen a trace of Peter or Charlotte. I have to believe they made it out of the tunnel and are safe. Then I shake my head trying to clear the ringing from the blast of the explosion.

I spend a good two hours on the dry, hard ground. The heat of the sun, combined with the scorch of the fire, creates a muddy mess under me as sweat pours from my body. Every now and then I twitch or twist to escape the hot fragments which continue to land on and around me. At one point, I ask if I can put my arms under my head refusing to rest it on the ground. Surprisingly, my request is granted. It seems we will be here a while longer as I assume they can't very well leave a building burning. They have to watch to ensure none of the trees catch on fire, since that would open up a whole new can of worms. Plus, they're still obligated to look for bodies.

One of the officers moved my truck to a safer distance and they tore it apart looking for any information on the operation including any names on the bottles, my name, the owner of the still, the owner of the cabin, and the names of the two people who went inside. Of course they didn't find anything. We prepared well. I'm relieved to know they didn't hear any of my conversation with Peter. I wasn't sure if I had spoken his or Charlotte's names before I knew we were being watched. They must have been concentrating too hard on not making a sound or were too far away to hear our words.

Upon realizing this stroke of luck, I keep my story simple. They ask who the couple was. I repeat for the millionth time, I'd never met them before and this was the first time I'd ever been here. They ask who I was buying the whiskey for and I patiently explain it was all for me. They don't believe it for a second. I merely shrug as I reply, "Since prohibition is about to descend upon us, I wanted to buy enough whiskey to last for a year or two or three. I like to find a direct source." I wink at the officers. " I don't like working with a middle man. It's cheaper to deal directly with the supplier."

After the fire burns itself out, a couple of the men who have been kicking around at the rubble of the cabin walk over to me and the circle of lawmen who continue to point their guns at my prone body. Hell, they already figured out I have no weapons on me or in my truck, but they still wouldn't let me sit up. One of the men announces, "We found a trap door. It seems your friends got away."

I look up, staring him straight in the eye and sneer, "Friends? You think they're my friends if they got away and I'm here with you? What kind of friends do you have, buddy? I'd be getting new ones, if I was you," I tsk, shaking my head at him.

A few actually chuckle at my sarcastic comment, as I return my gaze to watching the final flames slowly extinguish themselves. I smile with them, only mine is for the fact Peter and Charlotte got away.

**~ J *+* D ~**

My trial was the biggest joke and I was the punch line. I wasn't supposed to be tried in the Orleans Parish courthouse. Bootlegging is supposed to be a Federal offense. The Federal Government is going to be losing massive tax revenues soon. The Eighteenth Amendment was recently passed and Prohibition is coming into law. The Feds were cracking down on distilleries in a final push for tax revenue on legal sales of alcohol. The Federal Government, being shorthanded, but trying to shut down as many stills as possible, used local law enforcement in their efforts.

During my interrogation, I'm asked in a variety of ways for the names of the two people who were at the cabin. They told me they had eventually entered the tunnel and couldn't find any trace of the couple. They surmised, correctly, they had a getaway vehicle stashed at the other end.

I profess shock at the cunning of those two individuals. They ask me for a better description of the pair, but I'm so vague it could have been anyone walking down the street. I make helpful comments such as the woman was too fair haired to be a true blonde, she must have been wearing a wig. The man had to have been taller than me, but I obscure any firm statements by saying I was slouching or leaning against the truck so I had no real idea, frustrating them to no end. I think I truly convinced them I was a backwoods know nothing. An ignorant man who really was purchasing cheap liquor just for my own purposes, and the few brain cells I exhibit is their proof.

Then they ask me more about myself. They can't find any information on a Jasper Grant. No birth certificate, no voting record, no school records. Where was I born? Where did I live? Was Jasper Grant my real name? I play dumb so well, I actually believe myself. Which is good. I'm less likely to screw up my lies that way. I never mention Peter and Charlotte by name, protecting them the best way I can. I don't even mention Maria, since I don't want to lead them to the true owner of the cabin and distillery.

My arraignment and sentencing is held within three days of my arrest. Seeing as I can't prove income, I can't afford a real attorney. I'm provided with a bored man of few words. At least he gets me off the distilling charge, but I'm quickly convicted of possession of moonshine. My truck was loaded with it. The whole process takes little time and I'm slapped with a five year sentence. Had it been in Federal court, as I was hoping, I would have probably walked away scot free.

At one point, during my final days in the Parish lockup, I'm informed I have a visitor. I follow the guard to the receiving area. When I see the visitor is Maria, I immediately turn around and walk back to my cell. I don't want or need to see her.

There was one man who caught my attention during the trial. It was the man who followed me that day from Maria's speakeasy. I can only assume he must have informed her that I didn't disclose who owned the distillery and she felt safe enough to come and pay a visit. This served to confirm my gut instincts, she was behind it all. If she had an ounce of decency or cared one iota for me, she would have made the effort to pay my fine. She knew I would be good for it, but she didn't pay it. She's still looking out for only herself and to hell with anyone else.

**~ J *+* D ~**

In the Parish of Orleans, the jails are full of high profile criminals. Mob members, murderers and rapists. People accused of petty crimes, such as myself, are usually released with a heavy fine or shipped to other states whose jails aren't as full. Due to my lack of funds, I'm being shipped off to Alabama. _Lucky me!_

Louisiana will actually make money on the deal. Alabama will pay off my court costs because I'm to become part of their convict lease program. _Damn you Maria, to hell and back! _

Being from Alabama myself, I know all about convict leasing. When slavery was abolished, there were thousands of farms and plantations on the verge of collapse. Owners had sunk their life savings into the purchase, housing, feeding and health needs of the now former slaves or freedmen. The rest of their monies were spent to help the war efforts of the Confederacy's secession from the Northern States.

After the failure of the Southern States to win the Civil War, there were no slaves left to work the land. With their financial inability to hire regular labor, farmers couldn't grow their crops; hence no tax revenues came into the state's coffers. The ironic part is slave states which did not declare secession from the Union continued their slaveholding ways after the war.

In 1846, prior to the Civil War, prisoners in Alabama were put to work under the watchful eye of the State Warden. However, years after the Civil War, Alabama was in a financial crisis. In 1875, the State decided it was time to make a profit from the men who filled the prisons and drained the taxpayer's wallet. Convict leasing was the answer. Thousands of former slaves, unable to find a paying job were rounded up on vagrancy or trumped up charges. Convict leasing became the most profitable industry in Alabama. I learned about this from my grandmother. It was a program in which she refused to participate.

By the late 1800's, 73% of Alabama's State revenues came from this program. Now it hovers at about 50%. It's one of the reasons I refuse to try to run the Whitlock Plantation. I need cash to pay laborers and not the poor saps used by the State as legal slaves. For all my noble abstinence, I was about to become one of them.

**~ J *+* D ~**

My family had a huge plantation with over a hundred thousand acres in the cotton belt. _Had_, is the key word, mind you. My grandfather's allegiance was with the Confederate Secession. He agreed with those who believed Lincoln was an abolitionist and, should he be elected, he would outlaw slavery. His family had owned slaves for well over 75 years and he wasn't about to let some Northern Bureaucrat tell him what he could and couldn't do with his property.

He was an arrogant, ornery man, and to make matters worse, not very bright. These were my grandmother's words, not mine. If he had read any of Lincoln's comments during his time in the Senate, he would have known Lincoln's original view point. Lincoln once said, 'I will say then that I am not, nor ever have been in favor of bringing about in any way the social and political equality of the white and black races - that I am not nor ever have been in favor of making voters or jurors of negroes, nor of qualifying them to hold office, nor to intermarry with white people; and I will say in addition to this that there is a physical difference between the white and black races which I believe will forever forbid the two races living together on terms of social and political equality.' Lincoln's original goal was to keep the United States whole. His only intent was to stop the secession from occurring. The South made it about slavery. Lincoln used their fear to his advantage.

My grandfather left his pregnant wife and two young daughters in January of 1865, to help in the failing war efforts. Now my grandmother was a smart woman, mind you, but how was she supposed to protect the plantation and keep the slaves under control? Once the master was gone, and with him most of his overseers, the slaves slowly and quietly disappeared into the night. The last few busted into the house and cellar taking or destroying as much of the food stuffs, cash and valuables as possible. All the while, my grandmother and aunts hid in her room with the door locked and barricaded with a highboy dresser, with the barrel of a shotgun aimed at the door. Lastly, the renegade slaves set fire to the winter vegetable crops, chicken coop, barns, and in a final gesture of sweet revenge, the slave quarters.

Thankfully, the house survived. My grandmother was left with no fresh vegetables to sell, no cash and very little food for her youngsters. All due to her foolhardy husband. Carmen was the only slave who stayed. Carmen had two sons who were old enough to work the fields and had taken off during one of the first escapes to freedom. Even though they tried to talk her into leaving with them, she had always been treated kindly and fairly by my grandmother and wasn't at all interested in living in the unknown of the outside world.

My grandmother had given Carmen her papers to freedom upon learning that slaves, including her sons, had run away. She encouraged her to leave after the ransacking and burning. Carmen simply looked at her and said, 'You are going to need all the help you can get, Missus Whitlock.' Carmen then proceeded to the family garden, rescued some of the vegetables and cooked her first meal willingly as a truly free woman. Their friendship lasted more than 50 years until Carmen passed. My grandmother buried her in the family cemetery marked with a headstone carved with an angel shedding a tear. A truer friend she had never known.

General Lee surrendered to the Union on April 9, 1865. This news was heard all around the continent if not the world within weeks. However, it took over two months for my grandmother to receive word of how her husband had died in the final battle of the Civil War at Five Forks, southwest of Petersburg, Virginia, which was fought on April 1, 1865. On April Fool's Day; _how appropriate._

**~ J *+* D ~**

After the Civil War, the prison systems in the southern states had largely a black population. There are many different types of convict labor. They range from the prison farm system, mining operations and rock quarries, to road and railroad construction and the turpentine industry. Here in Alabama, the money makers are mining, road construction and the prison farm system. The farm system forces convicts to serve many years being leased to plantation owners. This practice enables plantation owners to fill their need for labor, left wanting by the demise of slavery, with compensation paid to the State, not the convicts. It continued the same brutalities of slavery. Even worse, those brutalities intensified.

Most slaveholders generally maintained the health and productivity of their individual workers because they paid good money for them. But as the lessor of convicts, it became the state's responsibility to see to the workers. The state couldn't care less about the convicts' conditions or needs. If one is injured or killed, they merely replace him with a new laborer. The average longevity of a convict worker in the leasing program is about five years. It usually ends with an injury, sickness or their death. For years, the death rate of convicts in this program was at 25%.

With the increase of motor vehicles and trains, the need for road and rail improvements was high. So in most southern states, to accommodate these increasing requirements, the chain gang was created. The power brokers in these states figured that rather than having prisoners just sitting around doing nothing, they could let them work off the cost of their room and board. This saved the states millions in contractor costs. Thousands of dollars, if not millions, in revenue were kept in county and state coffers, while thousands of men died. All for the sake of the American dream to travel well or ease the shipping of goods to make some lives easier and wealthier.

This knowledge rattles around in my head along with the sound of the chains shackled around my ankles and wrists on my way to Alabama. My mind drifts over past conversations with my father, who was born into poverty on the plantation. He saw first-hand the brutality toward the convict laborers from the neighboring farms. Since my grandmother refused the State's offer to help with the plantation, to make ends meet, she slowly sold off parcels of land to keep her family alive.

My father was a smart man, and had money been available for schooling, he would have been a scholar or a politician. He was a voracious reader and could recite you line for line the Constitution and all the Amendments. But, times being what they were, he did his best to help run the plantation. He met and married my mother when he was in his late 30s. None of the women in the area agreed with his opinion of the leasing program. They were debutantes enjoying the finer things in life and didn't care how or where money came from, only that it came.

The first time my dad ever saw my mother was in Mobile. He'd come to town for supplies and she was arguing with a man on the public boardwalk. His curiosity was piqued since she was spouting off the 13th Amendment. She was a pretty little blonde standing her ground, hands on hips, in front of a young black man. Two officers were there to arrest him for nothing more than sitting down to eat a sandwich by a corner store. The owner of said store was livid, claiming he was losing business with him sitting so close to the entrance.

"He's a free man," she shouted, "he's allowed to sit down and eat a meal. You don't own the sidewalk!"

"Not in front of my store!" The owner yelled back.

"Fine, let him leave and he can find somewhere else to eat in peace," she huffed, crossing her arms.

"No! He's already cost me business and he needs to pay for it," bellowed the owner.

"How much could you have lost? I saw him arrive two minutes before you came out. I know since I've been waiting for a friend to meet up with me," she reasoned and raised her brows.

"Who knows? Now, with you causing a scene, nobody is in the store because all the customers are out here," riled the owner, gesturing to all the people lining the streets watching the confrontation.

"That's on you, not on this young man. If you had minded your own business, he probably would be gone by now and we wouldn't be having this argument," she smiled at him in triumph.

The owner was outraged. He demanded the officers arrest her for unruly conduct and the aiding and abetting of vagrancy. My father had been watching the confrontation and was impressed with the pluck the young woman possessed. But, when the officers seemed all too willing to do as the owner demanded, he'd had enough.

My father was a large man. He was 6'4" with a strong build after years of hard work to keep the remains of the plantation going. He walked up and stood next to the woman and boldly put his arm around her shoulders, daring the two smaller officers to take her. The poor young black man whose rights they were defending became so scared by the whole ordeal, he took off running. The two officers quickly gave chase and, unfortunately for the young man, caught him, beat him and then hauled him off to jail. The owner of the store smirked at the young woman and went back inside. The violent scene shook her to the core. My mother started crying into my dad's dirty work shirt. Thereafter, they got to know each other and married.

My father objected to the line in the 13th Amendment which stated, "Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, nor any place subject to their jurisdiction." Now, I am part of that little escape clause the States use for convicts, sentenced to five years of hard labor.

**~ J *+* D ~**

I had always considered myself a strong man. I'm no stranger to hard and grueling labor having grown up on the plantation. I'm not lazy and thought I was in good shape. _I was proven wrong._

Spending 8 to 10 hours a day in the hot sun, constantly lifting or heaving a pick, shovel, hoe or sickle, woke me up to the truth of all the stories I heard. You can't imagine the cruel reality of the chain gang until you've actually been on one. For days, whether awake or asleep, my arms vibrated and muscles twitched constantly from the aches and pains which radiated through them.

During the evenings, I got to know two of my cellmates very well. Tiny and Blue are good men and helped me adjust during my first week of prison life. They told me which guards to avoid and which were okay, which inmates I could trust, and which to watch my back with.

My other cellmate, however, is a complete and total jackass. His name is Cracker. In Elizabethan times a cracker was a braggart. Here in the south, the term came to mean a white man cracking the whip on either slaves or animals. In Cracker's case, it's used as an ironic nickname since he felt the whip on his first day here and during the five years he's served so far, has felt the whip almost weekly. You would think he'd learn to keep his mouth shut to avoid the pain, but not Cracker.

Out of all of us, Cracker, whose real name is James de Sade, is the only one who actually should be in this cell. Born and raised on the outskirts of Houston, Texas, he was a two bit criminal from an early age. He mumbled most of the time because he'd lost quite of few of his teeth or he had a swollen jaw from being beaten. It didn't stop him from bragging about insignificant petty thefts he performed at the ripe old age of 8, reliving his glory days until he was arrested as if he was a mastermind of organized crime.

He gloated about his patiently waiting girlfriend, Victoria, with her flaming red hair and hour glass figure, and all the things he couldn't wait to do to her once he got out of here. He'd snicker with glee, boasting about some official, or officiant, or officer who had been after her since his arrival here. But, she's stayed true to him. 'A lawless menace to the world.' _His words, not mine. _

I may be new to the ways of the men on the chain gang. But one thing I know, you don't open your mouth unless you want punishment. I think Cracker is a masochistic son of a bitch, who loves the punishment since he can't seem to understand this simple concept. He's one I wish I could stay away from. Unfortunately, he's one I'm chained to.

**~ J *+* D ~**


	5. Chapter 5

**Heartfelt thanks to Lilith and Ficfangirl. You both are simply the best. All errors are mine. I really do mess with the story after the final edit. :) **

**Thank you for all the pm's, reviews and followers. To answer a few questions: There are just a few more chapters of getting to know individual characters. Then connections will be formed. Another is, why am I writing the story this way? Because I want you to understand the back stories of each of the characters. Why they are the in the situation they find themselves in, what makes them tick and how they move forward. I can't write in flashbacks. Thank you so much for your patience. Happy Mother's Day to you and yours.**

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**Cure sometimes, treat often, comfort always."**

**~ Hippocrates ~**

**Chapter 5**

**Begins the night Edward Masen was arrested**

**Carlisle **

I run beside the men, watching over my patient, as we rush the woman to the hospital in her make shift stretcher. As soon as we arrive, they help me gently lower her onto a bed where I'm able to fully assess her injures. Under the glaring overhead lights, the extent of her bruises and abrasions are clearly visible. I can only assume, judging by her condition, she fought hard against her attacker – she fought hard for her life. Thankfully, she lost consciousness after her hysteria reared its ugly head.

The look of confusion on the young priest's face when she screamed and stunned him into silence is one I will never forget. The terror shining in his eyes as the Constable arrested him without a second's warning was heartbreaking. My gut instinct tells me he was there to help and was not the instigator of this terrible crime.

The nurses help me cut her blouse and skirt away so I can get a better look at her wound. Her arms, chest, ribs and stomach are covered in massive bruises. She took many blows from her assailant and, based on the bruising on her arms, must have been shaken violently. If the young man did this, his hands would have shown signs from hitting her repeatedly. I clearly remember seeing them, and although they were covered in blood, I don't recall seeing them scraped or swollen. I sigh to myself as I admit, it was dark. Who knows what the blood covered.

I look at her bloodied hands noticing the scrapes and broken fingernails. She went down fighting is the only assessment I can make. One of her hands is clenched tight and I gently pry her fingers open. A black button lands on the bedding. Curious, I pick it up and wonder where it came from. I notice a very small piece of black material is still in her hand. I remove it and place it, along with the button, in a cotton cloth setting it on the side table.

I finally assess the wound from the knife. It was thrust deeply. If she is to survive, immediate surgery is needed to repair the damage and stop the blood loss.

Her stockings, which were attached to her girdle, are still in place as are her bloomers. I know intuitively she was not raped. _Thank God for small miracles. _

She starts moaning again and I ask one of the nurses to get the morphine. As soon as the bottle is handed to me with a syringe, I measure out an appropriate dose and inject it into her arm. Within minutes it calms her agitation and hopefully dulls all her pain. She starts to babble again, whispering about 'the man in black.' Begging him not to harm her. She whimpers for him to stop. She pleads she will do anything as long as he stops hurting her. She always refers to her attacker as 'the man in black.'

**~ J *+* D ~**

It takes two hours to repair and close her wounds. She is valiantly fighting for her life and I have never wanted someone to live as much as I pray she does. I want her to tell us who did this to her. I want to know if my faith in the young priest is correct and not some misguided hope that a man of the cloth couldn't or wouldn't do this.

As her doctor, I sit with her for hours. Insuring she is pain free. Holding her hand and trying to give her comfort when her whispered ramblings begin anew. Holding her down when her nightmares cause her to thrash about.

As a selfish and ethical man, I sit with her because I can hear the Constable outside the door to her room. Since he arrived an hour ago, I've listened to him trying to convince the other doctors and nurses who have attended to her and heard her murmured accusations against 'the man in black,' that it must be the priest she's accusing. The Constable insidiously repeating his question, "Who else could it be?"

I can see it in their eyes. They are being swayed by his conjectures when they come in to check on her progress. Every time they hear the repetitive mumblings from the young woman, they are more convinced that she must be referring to the young priest. I try to be the voice of reason and remind them all, "She has never said it was a priest," but they aren't listening objectively anymore.

They weren't there to see his reactions. I can see, after hours of the Constable's influence, they've made up their minds. His sly comments of, "He's only a doctor and not an officer of the law. I know evil when I see it," have worn down their normal open minds and hardened their hearts to the priest.

Hours pass and the long night fades, relinquishing its hold to the early morning sun. The Constable had searched through her handbag looking for identification and additional evidence. I now know her name is Lauren Mallory and I speak her name as I try to give comfort. The Constable remains close to the room, coming in at various times, demanding her to answer his questions. Every time he speaks with her she becomes more agitated. He pressures Miss Mallory to answer him. "Did the priest do this to you?"

It's her distress as he repeatedly asks the question which satisfies him they have arrested the right man. His triumphant grin has the rest of the staff agreeing with him. Two minutes after he leaves the room and I've calmed Miss Mallory again, she opens her eyes to hold mine. In a rare moment of clarity, she whispers her final words, "Not the Priest."

At first I'm stunned and then elated. My euphoria lasts all of ten seconds when I realize she's not breathing. "Help!" I shout out, attempting to revive her. "She said, 'Not the Priest.' We need to resuscitate her." I start mouth to mouth and a nurse comes in to take over when I need to breathe, but it's too late. She's gone.

**~ J *+* D ~**

The Constable watches us work from the door. His eyes intently focused on Miss Mallory. When we know it's a lost cause, he questions me, "What did you mean when you said, 'Not the Priest?'"

I look him straight in the eye, "Those were her last words. 'Not the Priest.' I believe you need to find another who is responsible for her death and let that poor man go. He didn't do it. She said as much."

"We only have your word on this, Dr. Cullen. No one else heard her say those words. You are the only one who refuses to believe the Priest did this. As far as I'm concerned, we have the right man and that's all that matters," he sneers and walks out of the room.

I look at the nurse who is covering up Miss Mallory. "Can you believe that? I know what she said and it doesn't matter to him. An innocent man is being falsely accused of a crime he _did not_ commit," I vent out my frustrations to her.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Cullen. I do know what I heard and I wish I would have heard her last words. But I didn't. I don't know what to think." She lowers her head, ashamed because she doesn't agree with me, a doctor whom she has worked with for two years. She's making her stand and choosing the _wrong side_.

I'm furious as I stare at her. I have to get out of here. I retrieve my medical bag and notice the cotton cloth which holds the button and material. I grab it, too. I leave the room and make my way to the administrator's office. Rounding the corner I notice Constable Apep walking out his office door. I'm too late. I'm sure he has already let it be known that I'm hindering his investigation. When he sees me, he stops and glares for a moment, then tips his hat and chuckles as he leaves the floor.

The administrator notices me from behind his desk. "Come in, Dr. Cullen, and shut the door," he commands.

I try to clear the seething anger coursing through my veins. I know the truth and I have a feeling it's not going to matter. Resigned, I walk into his office and quietly close the door.

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**It is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in ourselves."**

**~ Shakespeare ~**

**After the arraignment of Edward Masen**

**Rose **

I have always accepted the theory that for every injustice there is a remedy. For every problem there is a solution.

A professor once remarked, 'Our purpose as lawyers is to listen to our client's story and their ultimate needs. In your chosen field as a lawyer, it falls to you to turn this need into a remedy. You have to be able to work backwards from there to find the cause of action; the remedy for which permits the desired result.'

I think being a lawyer is the same as being a master of a giant chessboard, with the law and courtroom procedure providing the rules of the game. Each individual piece does its part to surround and protect the guiding principles, the purpose of the principles being for the betterment of mankind. The chess pieces and the way they are to be moved depend on which side of the board the lawyer's client resides. The skill of the lawyers in making those moves determines the winner and loser of any lawsuit. I have always had faith in the fundamental answers found in law books. It is up to the lawyer to find, interpret and utilize the written word skillfully enough for the client's benefit.

Edward Masen is the first to challenge my staunch belief in this system. Just because he was first and present at the scene of the crime didn't automatically make him the criminal. And yet, this is exactly the evidence that is being used against him. Why? It doesn't ring true. This is what I need to find out. I pull out my newly broken in Edward Masen book and start reviewing my earlier thoughts.

After our initial meeting with Mr. Masen in the courtroom, Sam and I came back to the office to sit down and create a time line. We know from the time he left the church to the time of his arrest, approximately 50 minutes elapsed. However, only 20-25 minutes passed from the time he left the church to the time the doctor arrived.

Yes, he had sufficient time to do the deed. Yes, being a man of the cloth would be an excellent way to throw people off and cover his trail, if he was a calculating criminal by nature.

But, I still have trouble with the official theory for his guilt. I grab my pen and write every question I think of at the top of a single page.

Why would he call for help?

Why, if he did the deed, didn't he leave?

Why wouldn't he have finished her off?

Why would he have offered her comfort and tried to stem the flow of blood?

Did he attempt to rape her?

Was it a crime of passion and he acted without thinking?

Why would he have a knife from the refectory on him when he hadn't arrived there yet?

If he already had the knife on him, why didn't he think to hide it? It was lying on the ground. Surely he had time to dispose of it.

He'd have to be the most incompetent of criminals to do all of the above and not think of any of the consequences. I don't think he's stupid. There were too many questions which didn't fit the pattern of a man who attempted murder, even in the heat of the moment.

The crime is headline news. The papers are having a field day quoting a source close to the case as stating, 'A priest has been arrested in the brutal death of a young woman of ill repute. He may also be the man responsible for earlier deaths of various such women in the past five years.' Again, it bothers me how speculation of the crime has him guilty before all the facts are uncovered.

The Edward Masen I met is not a man confident or cocky, which would make me suspicious. No, he is a man confused and shocked by the turn of events. He can't be that skilled of a performer. He's a very good looking young man whom I'm sure wouldn't have to attack a lady of the evening, as the newspaper accounts of his actions imply. I'm sure she would have given into his desires for free. No, I just don't believe it. Not once did he look at me with anything more than complete gratitude for our willingness to take his case.

Edward Masen is the first man I've met who didn't try to size me up or show any kind of desire. He doesn't think with his third leg. And I'm not offended by the knowledge. It's refreshing. Even when I met Sam for the first time, he wondered what was beneath the surface of a pretty face.

But not Edward Masen. The purity he held within his eyes is not of a man hiding behind the cloak of faith with lust or deceit. He is as innocent as a newborn. He is a man singularly devoted to his church. I would lay my fortune down if proven wrong. Something is definitely wrong here and I intend to find out what it is.

**~ J *+* D ~**

The next day, I locate Lauren Mallory's residence in the town of La Porte. She lived in a boarding house run by one Mrs. Jessica Stanley. My interview with Mrs. Stanley is interesting. I introduce myself and explain the purpose of my visit. She invites me in immediately and I follow her stiff form into the parlor where we both take a seat. Mrs. Stanley is a stern, no-nonsense, brunette, who would be pretty if her eyes were not so void of emotion.

She's forthright with answers to questions I haven't even asked, such as how she's widowed and inherited the home from her beloved husband's family. I feel as if she knew someone would come to question her and has been coached. Her comments seem too well rehearsed. She makes it abundantly clear, "My boarders do not use their rooms for anything other than sleeping or quiet leisure, _alone_." Again, I didn't even ask a question. It's as if she conducts her own interview.

"I have four rooms with boarders in my six bedroom home. I don't know or care about their occupations, if they have any." She cuts her eyes to me to see my reaction. I nod at the wisdom of her statement.

She continues her speech with an explanation of her simple rules. "I offer my boarders three square meals a day. As long as they pay the rent on time and there are no gentlemen callers in their rooms, I'm happy to let them come and go about their personal business, no questions asked." She looks at me to ensure I understand her conditions and I nod, since this is what she expects me to do. I've already deduced that Mrs. Stanley demands respect whether it's due her or not. I tone down my usual abrupt nature and attempt simpering. This she accepts and relishes.

I politely inquire, "Has anyone been up to Miss Mallory's room since the last time she was here?"

"No, no one. Absolutely not. Her rent isn't technically due until tomorrow, so I was leaving everything as is." A frown furrows her brows and then she sighs, "I suppose now I will need to get everything removed and then find another renter."

"How long was Miss Mallory a tenant?" I murmur.

"A little over a year," she huffs. "I imagine it will take me days to remove her things." This surprises me because she isn't showing any signs of remorse or regret at the loss of Miss Mallory as a person. Most people would at least feel a bit saddened for someone whose life was cut short even if they had only met once. This is surely an emotion Mrs. Stanley is familiar with having lost a husband.

"Would you allow me to have a look around Miss Mallory's room?" I meekly request. Mrs. Stanley's personality is such that if she felt you crossed the line, you would be put out the door. I need to see if there is anything in Miss Mallory's room - a name, an address, a monogrammed handkerchief - anything which might give a clue that she knew her killer.

She finally nods her consent. I follow her up the stairs and down the hall to the last room. Using her key, she unlocks the door and I'm immediately assaulted by cheap perfume stagnating in the closed up room. Mrs. Stanley walks over to open the windows with a frown on her face, as I take in the room in general. The room itself is comfortable and welcoming. Her bed is made, covered in a patchwork quilt. Scarves in a variety of colors hang from the side mirrors on her bureau. A coat rack holding sweaters, coats and various styled hats stands in a corner. The furniture isn't top notch, but you can tell she took pride in the cleanliness of her surroundings. It's not a room which would lead you to believe she was a lady of the evening. Did everyone just assume she was? Now that I think about it, who was the one to suggest to the papers she was a woman of ill repute? I'll have to look into this more.

Mrs. Stanley returns to the door and once again a frown mars her brows. "Are you sure you're okay if I have a look around?" She's becoming pensive and I'm concerned she might withdraw her permission of just moments ago.

"I thought her killer was arrested? That's what I've heard. Your presence here makes me wonder if you believe he's still out there," she finally spits out what's on her mind.

"I believe he is. I believe Mr. Masen is an innocent man. Father Michael hired Sam Uley, whom I work with to defend him," I answer truthfully.

Her eyes lose their gruffness and her features clear of distress at the mere mention of Father Michael. I'm about to ask her how well she knows Father Michael, when we're interrupted by a towheaded little boy of about three years of age running down the hall, only stopping when he clutches and hides in her voluminous skirt. I barely caught a glimpse of his blue eyes and chubby face as he begs shyly, "Mommy, mommy, can I have a cookie now?"

Mrs. Stanley looks at me for a brief moment and with her hands to the boy's head so the material hides his face, as she murmurs, "You can look all you want. Should you find any money, I would appreciate it if you would give me enough to cover another week's worth of rent. It will take time to clean up and clear the room for a new boarder and I really can't afford to lose that kind of income." And with that said, she picks up her son with his back to me and carries him off down the hall.

Again, I find Mrs. Stanley's behavior unsettling. Most women are proud of their children and will even regale you with unwanted and uninteresting stories of their pride and joy. Most would show remorse at the loss of an acquaintance and, in her case, a tenant. Instead, she asks should I find money, to please give her enough to cover the next week's rent. She's an odd woman and I can't let go of the feeling she is protecting not only herself and her child, but someone else.

As soon as Mrs. Stanley leaves, I start by pulling out Miss Mallory's dresser drawers and rifle through them. Behind the third drawer I find money in an envelope. It must be her life's savings because there is well over $400 inside. I put the envelope on the bed. I will ensure Mrs. Stanley gets one more week of rent, but the rest will be used to give Miss Mallory a proper burial.

On top of her bureau, I find some cheap jewelry and keepsakes. In a bedside table drawer, I find receipts for wages paid from a seamstress shop with an address located on the outskirts of Houston, owned by a Mrs. Cope. The slips date back as far as last year, proving that she was gainfully employed. I'm beginning to think the newspapers had it wrong.

Under the papers in the drawer, I find a journal. Its first entry is dated when she first arrived here in the town of La Porte. I sit on her bed and start scanning her entries. She writes about finding a boarding house for women only, run by Mrs. Stanley. She briefly mentions a run in with Mrs. Stanley's close friend, but doesn't mention a specific name or gender. She speaks of how she loves her job working for a kindly woman named Mrs. Cope, and of another seamstress by the name of Victoria who is a bit scatter brained, but very nice.

I skip to the last pages. She has been carrying a torch for a man whom she only refers to as 'the man in black.' She doesn't know his name, but he is a tall man with a fine bearing. He doesn't look at her. He has eyes for another and she can only hope that someday he will notice her. Then luck is on her side. He and the other woman have another argument and he finally does take notice of her. He asks her to meet him by the side of the church that evening. Her excitement is palpable as she writes of a possible happily ever after. It's a shame really. Because little did she realize that her dream come true would turn into a deadly nightmare.

I'm now convinced, more than ever, that Mr. Masen is not the murderer. I'm holding Miss Mallory's words in my hands and I know Sam will be able to use this information in his defense. I quickly slip it into my bag.

When there was nothing more to be found in the room, I make my way downstairs. Mrs. Stanley is stiffly perched on the edge of a chair in her sitting room – her son conveniently missing. I don't know why, but it bothers me. It's been my experience that once a child knows another person is in the house, they love to let their presence be known – looking for attention. Maybe she's worried that I'll let something slip about Miss Mallory and she doesn't want to explain about her death? Maybe she has simply told him that she's left? My thoughts are interrupted because as soon as she sees me she blurts out, "Did you find anything helpful in your search?"

"Yes, actually I did." I dig into my bag and bring out the envelope and count out the sum she said she would need to cover another weeks rent. "Here is the money you requested." She raises her brow looking at the money remaining in the envelope as if wishing she had made an attempt to scour the room herself or at the very least, quoted a higher amount. It ticks me off. "The balance will be used to ensure she has a proper burial." She stiffens and then lowers her head in embarrassment for letting her greediness show. I know full well she hadn't thought of that little detail. "I'll let you know when the services will be held." She nods her head, but remains quiet.

"I also found her journal and I'm taking it with me. I'm hoping after a thorough reading it may provide a clue as to who she might have met." Mrs. Stanley merely bobs her head again. I know she feels remorseful and won't argue with me. "Here's my calling card. If you think of anything that might be relevant, please don't hesitate to contact me." She doesn't reach out for it so I lay it on the entry table. "Thank you for your time Mrs. Stanley," and I let myself out.

As I'm walking to my vehicle I get the strangest feeling that I'm being watched. I turn to Mrs. Stanley's home and check the ground level windows and all seems fine. Then my eyes move up and I'm not sure if I saw a movement or my imagination was playing tricks on me. I look around at the pedestrians and other vehicles, yet all seems perfectly normal. I crank up my vehicle and then when I get in I look around again. I know I'm being watched, I just can't figure out from where. It's definitely time to leave. And with that thought, I put one foot on the clutch, shift into gear and hit the gas.

**~ J *+* D ~**

Once I'd driven about a mile away and was positive I wasn't being followed, I shake off the feeling and begin to relax. Since I need to pass through the area where Miss Mallory used to work on my way back to Houston, I decide I might as well pay a visit to her former place of employment to interview the seamstress, Mrs. Cope. Upon entering the shop, I notice a pretty, red headed, young woman who is working on a dress. She smiles. "Welcome to Mrs. Cope's Seamstress Shop. I'm Victoria. Can I help you?"

"Hi Victoria, I'm hoping to speak to Mrs. Cope. Is she available?" She nods, but her warm welcoming smile fades to sadness. She thrusts the pins in her hands into a cushion which hangs from the dress maker form. She then tilts her head, signaling for me to follow her as she walks to a back room.

I can hear a woman softly crying as Victoria gently taps on the door. "Mrs. Cope, there's a woman here who would like to speak to you. Do you have a moment?" Victoria softly inquires.

We can hear the blowing of a nose and her hiccupped reply, "That's fine, Victoria, send her in."

Victoria opens the door slowly and Mrs. Cope comes into view. An older, graying woman with a round face and spectacles perched on her nose. She's obviously distraught as she waves me in and points to a chair in front of her desk while dabbing at the tears streaming from her eyes. She has a newspaper opened in front of her and tries to fold it up neatly, but with her shaking hands, it's defying her attempts. Frustrated, she grabs it and bunches it up, throwing it away into a nearby trash can.

I reach my hand across the desk, holding one of hers as I speak quietly, "Mrs. Cope, my name is Rose Hale and I'm here to ask you questions about Miss Lauren Mallory. I can only imagine how I've caught you at a bad time. But, I'm hoping you will allow me to ask a few questions."

"There won't be a good time to ask your questions. I miss her so." Her voice catches as she tries to control her emotions.

"I know. What happened to her was horrible and I can only imagine the pain you're going through. Are you sure you're able to speak to me?" She looks so distressed and it's this reaction I would have expected of Mrs. Stanley. Not the cold, stilted woman I met. "I see you've been reading the paper. What's your opinion on what's being reported?"

Her features become hostile as she stares at me, "Let me ask you a question first, Miss Hale. Who do you work for and what is your interest in Lauren?"

I like her. She is acting like a mother hen protecting her chicks. "I work with Mr. Sam Uley. Mr. Uley and I are representing Mr. Masen." She raises her brows and I continue, "I'll be honest, we don't believe he is the one who did this to your Lauren, and I don't believe what is written in the newspapers about her character." I smile gently. I want her to speak openly about Miss Mallory and she needs to understand that I know, just because it's written in black and white – doesn't make it the truth.

She looks at the balled up newspaper again and sneers at it before her eyes return to mine. "No, she wasn't the type of woman who behaved in that manner. She was a lovely, good girl, who worked hard and had a future here and dreamt of owning her own shop one day. She had a flair for style and a wonderful way with the customers. I'll miss her so much," she sniffs as the tears threaten to return.

"I had a feeling the story was wrong." I gaze into her eyes so she can see the truth of my words. "I found a journal she kept and I immediately knew the papers got it wrong. I'm so sorry they did."

Mrs. Cope nods and agrees with me, "Now that we've got that straight, I want to know why they think Father Masen is behind this. I've never personally met him, but I've seen him at church. I can't imagine he has anything to do with Lauren's death," she tsks.

"I'm sure you read all about it in the papers. We believe he was in the wrong place, at the wrong time. He tried to save her, but he seems to be the only suspect. This is why I'm hoping you can help me. In her journal, she writes about a 'man in black.' She never mentions him by name, but she seems to view him as the man of her dreams. Did Lauren ever speak about a special someone?" I quietly ask.

Mrs. Cope shakes her head, "I have no idea who Lauren's infatuation could have been. Lauren was a dedicated worker when she was here and her private life was very private. I never even knew she liked someone." She rises from her chair and walks to the door. "Victoria, can you come here for a moment, please?" She returns to her seat.

Victoria comes and stands in the door frame. "Yes, Mrs. Cope."

"Victoria, this is Miss Hale. She is working with an attorney defending the young priest, Father Masen. She has a few questions and maybe you would know the answers." She beckons Victoria further into the room. We both nod at each other.

"Victoria, I found a journal which belonged to Lauren. In it, she writes about a man whom she seems very attracted to, she only describes him as a 'man in black.' Did she ever confide in you about this?" Victoria seems surprised by the question, but I'm not sure if it's because Lauren wrote about it or that Lauren liked someone.

"Lauren never spoke to me about anyone other than our customers. I don't think I can help you, Miss Hale." She nervously looks down at her hands. Instantly, I know there is something more, but she's not forthcoming with her thoughts. Is she protecting Lauren, the unknown man or herself?

"Can you tell me, do you know Father Masen? Did he ever come to the shop or visit with Lauren?" I change directions.

"Yes, I know who Father Masen is. I lived in La Porte until a few months ago and it's a small town. But no, I've never actually met him and no I haven't seen him near the shop, nor do I think Lauren knew him." This time she answers with complete honesty.

Mrs. Cope concurs with Victoria's answer. Neither of them ever saw him in this area. I leave each of them my calling card and ask if either of them remembers the littlest detail to please get in touch with me.

"Miss Hale, before you leave can I ask you a couple of questions?" Mrs. Cope is hesitant, but I wait patiently. "As I said, Lauren was a very private and quiet young lady, but what I do know is, she didn't have any family. I would like to see that she receives a decent burial. Can you help me with this?"

"I would be more than willing to help. I'm sure the morgue is waiting for someone to claim her. In fact, I will help make arrangements for you. Lauren had some savings and I was going to ensure she was taken care of properly." I gently smile at her as I add, "And the other question?"

"I want it known, Lauren was a good girl. I don't want her name dragged through the mud. Please, clear her name," she pleads.

"We will do everything in our power. She will not be disparaged in anyway by us. I promise you." My gaze never leaves hers, so she knows I'm again, speaking the truth.

Victoria walks me to the door and I ask her, "Do you have any gentlemen callers, Victoria?"

She looks startled for a moment, but recovers with a light embarrassed blush. "My boyfriend is in prison, but he'll hopefully be free in a few months." Then she looks down again. "I don't give any other admirers the time of day. None of them interest me," she admits, but she looks conflicted. Again I'm curious as to what she's not telling me. Is it only her embarrassment at admitting her boyfriend is incarcerated, or is it about an admirer she had that Lauren herself might have been interested in?

As I leave Mrs. Cope's shop, I realize I didn't learn as much as I hoped. Whoever this 'man in black' is, he may not have come into the shop. Where would Lauren have seen him, if not here? A nagging in my head tells me Victoria knows something more. What is she not saying?

**~ J *+* D ~**


	6. Chapter 6

**To Lilith and Fanficgirl, two incredible women. I'm so grateful to your help, ideas, corrections and for holding my hand. Thank you.**

**Most asked question? When is Father Edward coming back into the story. In the next chapter. :) Then he will be very involved. The characters are moving in the direction where their lives will collide. Thank you for your patience, reviews, PM's, followers and your time. **

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**God forgive you, but I never can."**

**~ Elizabeth I ~**

**Chapter 6**

**Day three on the train**

**Bella**

I rub my neck where a crick is starting to form from slouching against the train window. The landscape flashing by no longer holds my interest. How many trees, boulders, rivers, streams, farms or plantations can keep your attention? Mine faded yesterday.

I straighten up, rolling my neck trying to work out the stiffness as I let my eyes wander around the cabin of the passenger car. I've scrutinized each and every individual as they've settled in for however long it is, until we've reach our destination. Some are families; a few married couples and some single men. I see Emmett and Seth in quiet conversation playing cards two rows up on my right. I finally turn sideways and I'm met with Alice's gaze as her eyes watch mine.

She knows I'm internalizing. My resentment of Reverend Jenks weighs heavily on my mind. My guilt is evident for uprooting my friends from the life they were living. One they were enjoying. One I was trying to live. She smiles reassuringly and takes my hand giving it a gentle squeeze. It has a dual effect. I'm both comforted and at the same time, I'm frustrated that once again I've allowed my fear get the better of me.

She softly speaks only one word. "Don't." For now, I try to let it ease the burden of my guilt. Only once again, I find myself reliving the past.

**~ J *+* D ~**

Meeting Alice is one of the best things to happen in my life. Of course at the time, I was scared and angry as I pushed against the shed door preventing her escape. Emmett's teasing caused me to laugh and helped me find humor in the situation. Then with Alice's spunky nature and apology, I just knew she could be a friend. When the dirty, half-starved girl emerged from the bathroom to reveal a beautiful young woman, I couldn't help but want to take care of her. Since then, she has taken care of me, too.

My mother, Renee, was out for the day. It had been five years since Phil's death. During this time, Renee changed for the better. Once we arrived in Northern Florida, away from the scene of the crime, if you will, she awoke from her depression and started to resume living again. She spoke of her guilt at not being emotionally available to me when I so desperately needed it during the trial. She raged at herself for being mentally incapacitated when the decision was made to move. She begged forgiveness for her selfishness, lost in her world of anguish and leaving me to fend on my own. From that moment on, she made me her first priority.

She re-established her old occupation and was able to find work after each of our various moves, teaching young children their ABCs. She also reverted to using the name Swan. It wasn't a hard decision for her to make. Under her breath one day, I heard her apologize to Charlie for leaving him. When I questioned her about it, she looked down and admitted, "I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, Bella. Charlie is my biggest regret. I should have never left him." Though she felt it was disrespectful to Phil, who had given her so much joy, she hoped Riley didn't know Swan was my last name. At the trial, I was only referred to as Isabella. I had always been introduced as Phil's daughter, Bella. Even Riley knew my nickname. Though he never officially adopted me, most people assumed my last name was Dwyer. Since I was young when they married and didn't understand the difference, I used his last name, which pleased him greatly.

We had recently moved to Southern Florida because once again, Mr. McCarty received word that someone was asking about the Riley Biers case. To the town at large – I was invisible. I was a seventeen year old girl who couldn't stand the idea of someone being able to identify me. Terrified it would become known who I was, what I'd done, and then _he_ would find me. Riley continually haunted my dreams. I feared he would catch wind of our new location and hunt me down, fulfilling his promise. I believed his words. How could I not? He killed Phil right out in the open. A grown man! What's to stop him from coming after me? Nothing! So I spent the first two months hiding away from the real world, afraid of my own shadow. Renee, Emmett and Mr. McCarty had taken to calling me Bella only in private. If I was out for a short period of time, usually at church, I was known as Isabella, no deviation. Bella, isn't a common name and surely it would raise a flag if someone were looking for me.

Emmett continues to look out for me and I cherish him like a big brother. However, since he's graduated from high school he holds down two part time jobs; working in his father's law office, as filing clerk, researching case law and running errands. The second is working with Seth as a mechanic. So I'm left alone to while away the hours until Renee returns. The time is spent working on my studies, since I'm home schooled, cleaning, washing the laundry and cooking dinner. My sanctuary is the four walls of this house where I exist in a self-imposed prison. I yearn to explore, but can't shed the anxiety which rears its ugly head at the thought of venturing outside.

As we ate, Alice told us of her life and why she was a runaway. She's a good soul with a zest for life, despite her atrocious upbringing. I couldn't blame her for her actions. Renee was difficult to deal with when we buried Phil. What I admired about Alice, was the final act of kindness she did for her mother. When she was hundreds of miles away she posted a note to the local authorities of her home town. She explained the severity of her mother's mental illness, and her last known whereabouts with a warning to approach with caution. She doesn't know the outcome and she really doesn't want to. She wants to remember her mother on the day she left, sleeping with a contented smile on her face.

Emmett left soon after we ate an early lunch. He's a good judge of character and feels comfortable leaving me alone with Alice.

Alice asked why I wasn't in school. Though I was nervous, for some unknown reason I trusted her. I told her about Phil and Riley. Her eyes filled with sorrow for my ordeal and she held my hand tightly as I spoke. She murmured how brave I was and vowed to never tell another soul. Lost in our conversation, I eventually remember I needed to finish the laundry. She followed me as I returned to my room and picked up her dirty clothes. I offer, "Grab anything in your sack you want washed." It took 5 seconds for her to grab a couple of thread bare dresses and underclothes. Her meager belongings belie the treasure she really is.

With her help, the wash is quickly finished, with the dried, clean clothes taken down and folded, and the wet ones hung up to dry. We worked well together and start to really talk about everything and anything. At one point, she asks, "I'm curious, do you know if there is anywhere I could get a job around here?"

I stumble through my answer, "I…I really have no idea. You'll need to ask Emmett. He would know better than me." For some reason, her question has made me a tad bit melancholy. I know we've only just met, but she's already talking about leaving?

She sensed my inner turmoil. She tilted her head and met my eyes, "I'm only asking so I can stay in the area, Bella. I need to be able to earn money to pay for my keep," she reassured me with a gentle smile lighting her features. I'm instantly relieved. "Bella, _you_ are the first person to truly look at me with something other than pity after knowing my history. Even the rumrunner felt sorry for me. You understood why I wanted to borrow your clothes. You brought me in and welcomed me," she confesses. Then an impish grin appears as she chuckles, "You saw me. Even hidden under all the dirt."

I laugh with her and it's refreshing to have a friend who's a girl. I know her mother was crazy, but I could never look down on her. We all have our crosses to bear.

"You do know you don't have to worry about a place to stay, food or clothing," I assure her. "I know my mom will like you. Hey, you could even study with me if you're interested." I smile, even more excited about the prospect of having another person my age to feel a bit more normal. It's a start.

Tears of gratitude well in her beautiful blue eyes. She surprises me with a sudden exuberant hug, while whispering, "Thank you."

I return the gesture while murmuring, "No, thank you, Alice."

After our little moment passed, we return outside to check the drying clothes. When I touch her britches, I thought of the story of _Pinocchio_ and cracked a smile as I muse out loud, "I wish I could be a real boy." I laughed out loud at the preposterous idea, but then a bit of melancholy sets in as I continue with my thoughts. "It would be fun to be someone other than me. It might even make me feel safe for the first time in a long time. I'd be able to go out in public and see where I live."

Alice looks me up and down. We're almost the same size, I'm just a few inches taller. "Why not?"

"Why not, what?" Her question confuses me.

"Why not try on the pants as soon as they're dry. See how you feel in them." She walks around me and then pulls my hair up, as she looks at my features. "We'd have to rough you up a little."

"What do you mean, 'rough me up a little'?" I'm suddenly concerned she wants to fight. I've kicked Emmett numerous times, but I've never hit anyone with my fists.

She laughs at my expression. "What I mean is, your face is too feminine. We'd need to dirty it up, you know, try to make you look more boyish. You'd need to wear boy's shirts and learn to walk and talk like a boy."

The idea settles in my head and I wonder if I would be able to fool anyone. It's worth a try if it gives me the freedom I so desperately desire. The more I think about it, the more the idea appeals to me.

A few hours later when the clothes are dried and put away, Alice and I return to my room. I play dress up, or down, since I'm trying for a boy's appearance instead of a princess. Alice went a step further, collecting a bit of ash from the fireplace and lightly smeared it along my jaw line. Up close my face looks dirty. From far away, it looks like the shadow of a young man's first beard growth. I like it.

Next, I try to lower my voice to a husky timbre and carry on a conversation with Alice. We laugh hysterically when my normal voice chimes in at unexpected moments. We laugh harder when I try to imitate how a boy walks. When I realize Renee will be home soon, I change back into my normal attire after quickly washing my face.

Later that evening at the dinner table, Renee learns of Alice's circumstances, and she is officially welcomed into our home. There were tears in Renee's eyes. I think she recognized my need for female companionship and Alice fit the bill to a tee.

**~ J *+* D ~**

A month later, the first time Renee saw me dressed as a boy, she didn't recognize me. I was leaning against the kitchen table, arms and ankles crossed, head angled down in a casual stance. My eyes hidden under the brim of a cap. She had just returned home from a day of teaching. She immediately noticed a young man in her kitchen and glanced quickly at Alice. Her eyes full of concern to find him in her home without proper supervision. She slid her eyes to me again, as she spoke in a curious yet cautious tone, "Alice, where is Isabella? And who is your young friend here?"

Alice, smiling brightly and not lying answered simply, "Isabella's around and this here is Billy."

Renee held her hand out, "Billy, I know most of the kids in the area. Are you new?" She spoke warily, but kindly and I can't hold it together. I shook her hand and then burst out laughing in my normal voice.

Renee gasped, "Bella? Is that you? For heaven's sake, what are you wearing?"

"Mom, Alice and I have been practicing to see if I can pass for a boy. I want to go outside. Enjoy the great outdoors. I want to see the town, go to a park or the beach. I want to have fun and be a teenager. I want to be able to be seen in public, but not as me. As Billy," I happily explained.

Of course, this revelation brought tears to her eyes. She hates what our lives have become, especially mine. Then she smiled at the two us. "I admit, you did have me fooled. I was ready to throttle Alice for allowing a boy in the house without my knowledge," she softly laughs, while still appraising my new image. After a few minutes of studying me further she relented, "I'll agree to give this idea a try as long as you promise to never venture out alone. Oh, and never cut your hair." Then her eyes widened as she takes in the cap. "You haven't cut your hair, have you?"

Alice and I cracked up again as we both shook our heads. "No Mom, my hair is piled under the cap."

Renee patted her chest as she calmed down, "Thank goodness," she sighed. Then she looked me over again as she walked around viewing Billy from various angles. Once she's satisfied with whatever thoughts she was thinking, she smiles. "My only other request is I want Bella at home and church. And I'm serious, promise me you won't go out by yourself. I need to know you're safe for a while until I get used to this idea."

These are conditions I easily agree to. I used Billy's voice as I replied, "I can do that ma'am. You have nothing to worry about." Renee's stunned look was priceless and I knew then I could pull this off.

She swallowed, "Bella, I mean Billy, your voice is very convincing." She weakly smiled, as she looks at the two of us, "I can tell you two have been working on this for a while. I'm impressed."

**~ J *+* D ~**

Money has been tight for all of us since we lost Phil. Mr. McCarty opened a small law practice, but he refused to take on risky clients, trying to maintain a low profile. Because of his reticence to handle the major cases, which would bring him into public view, he doesn't make the same income he used to. It took me a little over a month to become comfortable in public as Billy. Once I was, Mr. McCarty hired me, as Billy, to run papers to and from his clients. This actually saved him money instead of using a courier service when Emmett wasn't around. Billy even got a job hawking the weekend morning newspapers. I would pay the newspaper printers for the cost of the papers and add two cents for me making them easily accessible to the public. What I learned was no one ever looked past my clothes. I'm just a normal boy for all they notice. It's liberating.

Well, it was, until one morning when a bigger boy pushed me down and stole my hard earned money. It was then I realized if I wanted to continue with this charade, I needed to learn how to defend myself.

Emmett's best friend is Seth Clearwater, whom he confided in about our circumstances. Seth is a good buddy. He thought it was funny that when he first met Billy, he just thought of me as a skinny little guy. He relentlessly teased Emmett about being the little boy's body guard. He good naturedly took the ribbing when he found out the truth weeks later. After the bullying incident, they both took on the chore of teaching me to fight.

I was becoming a pro at walking the walk and talking the talk of a young man. Renee would be horrified if she knew some of the things I said or did as Billy.

**~ J *+* D ~**

Once I started bringing in funds and Alice wasn't looking out for me as much, she decided it was time for her to get a part time job. She found one working in a new shop called a beauty salon. It was the first salon to open in our area. It was based on the Elizabeth Arden salon with a red door which the owner happened across when she visited New York.

Alice's job was to sweep up hair, sharpen scissors, clean out the sinks from the henna rinse many of the women added to their hair, wash down the makeup counters and restock the shelves of beauty supplies and products. She enjoyed it tremendously.

She's awed, as she put it, "Watching plain looking women walk into the shop and walk out like fashion plates." She not only brings in an income to contribute to our household, but also the remains of supplies such as creams, makeup, shampoos and conditioners which would have found their way into the garbage heap.

What she enjoys the most though, is practicing her new found skills on me. I'm her little guinea pig. However, I have to admit her skilled hands and artistic eye can transform me into one of the most exotic and elegant women I've ever seen.

Eventually, Renee became comfortable in our surroundings and feeling secure our secret was safe, she allowed suitors vying for her attention into our home. I had Alice, Emmett and Seth. She had Mr. McCarty, but he was only a family friend. The simple truth was, she was lonely.

Unfortunately, a few of her suitors also seemed interested in me. _Too interested_. At 17, my figure was filling out and I wasn't comfortable meeting people without the security blanket of Billy's clothes hiding me. I always tried to stay out of view. One day, Alice was at the salon, while I was in the kitchen washing the afternoon dishes and Renee was in the sitting room with Mr. King. He excused himself to use the bathroom. When he came out, instead of returning to the sitting room, he came up behind me in the kitchen and squeezed my bottom, possibly assuming I was hired help. I let out such a yelp, Renee came running in immediately. There went Mr. King!

When I was 18, Mr. Denali came to call on Renee unannounced. Being the polite hostess, she offered iced tea, which he gladly accepted and she left me alone dusting the bric-a-brac in the sitting room with my back to him. The old coot had a thick accent and made noises about how he could use my services and I could be calling him, 'Papi.' I turned, but kept quiet not understanding his comments, as he sucked in his breath and told me how beautiful I was. He then stated his compliment should be rewarded with a kiss to his cheek.

He was Spanish and I was naïve. I didn't know anything about Spanish customs and didn't want to insult him. So I cautiously stepped towards his chair to offer the appropriate thank you. He immediately turned his face and grabbed my arms, and tried to smash his wet, slimy lips to mine. I struggled, twisting my arms out of his grasp and punched him solidly under his jaw. Luckily, Renee witnessed him grabbing my arms and his assault. She came in, putting an immediate stop to any further visitations by grabbing her umbrella and whacking him solidly over the head, several times.

From then on, Renee curtailed any further visits from men without an additional person in the home. Whether it was both Alice and I, or even Emmett and Seth occasionally, she refused to take any further chances were I was concerned. It would have been a simple matter solved if she allowed me to be Billy, but she flat out refused. "Not in the house, Bella. Not in the house," she sternly disagreed with the notion. She ran her hands through my hair and then cupped my face. "Bella, I can't lose you. I know you don't see it, but you're different as Billy. When you put on his clothes his alter ego comes out. You're not my Bella. I'll do anything I can so I don't lose you, Bella. I love you," she sniffed and I couldn't deny her.

**~ J *+* D** ~

My hair grew longer making it difficult to keep hidden under a cap. I begged Renee to allow me to cut off six inches or so, and she flat out refused. Alice ended up cutting a little bit of my hair by my neck after it was pulled up to make it look as if I had short hair. When my hair was down you couldn't see the short hairs. Then she found a fedora in a second hand store. I thought it gave me roguish quality and it became my hat of choice. The word fedora comes from the title of an 1882 play by dramatist Victorien Sardou, called Fédora. It was written for the actress Sarah Bernhardt. She played the heroine, whose name was Princess Fedora. During the play, Bernhardt, who was a notorious cross-dresser, wore a center-creased, soft brimmed hat. Because of her style and finesse, she is one of Alice's favorite entertainers. Women's rights groups adopted the style. Now it's also being worn by men, replacing the Homburg hat because of its German connotation.

As I got older, the changes in my body gave rise to the need to bind my breasts and layer longer shirts to hide my slender waist and rounding hips so I could continue the charade of man-child. Most of the shirts came as hand me downs from Emmett and Seth, or from Alice who loves the second hand stores. I've grown taller than Alice by a good five inches, so when Emmett and Seth's dates ask for Billy to join them, Alice good naturedly comes along as mine. It wards off the advances of girls who feel Billy is in need of a girlfriend. Emmett and Seth loved putting me in these situations for a good laugh. This was Billy's downside.

**~ J *+* D ~**

Two years have passed since we first moved to this town. Reverend Jenks has been at our church for less than six months. People said it was God's will that he happened to be in town when the old Reverend passed away. Others weren't so sure, but gave in to the demand for a leader for the church.

Spring had arrived and with it warm weather. As per Renee's request, I'm dressed in my best going to church in Sunday attire. A lovely dress, gloves and a jaunty little hat set atop my head with my hair freely flowing down my back. In other words, sans Billy. I'm no longer hiding in the back behind my family and friends as I used to. Being Billy has given me confidence to take care of myself. Alice is fighting her giggles and is fidgeting beside me. She's been flirting with a young man that Emmett told her, wanted to ask her out and hopes she will get a chance to talk with him after the service. Reverend Jenks drones on about forgiveness and how everyone makes mistakes, while my mind drifts about wishing I could date. Not that anyone had caught my attention. It's just the principal of the idea.

As soon as the sermon is over, Alice whispers, "Wish me luck." I roll my eyes and smile. She doesn't need it and then she races out the door to a convenient spot where the boy will have to pass. I quickly left the church. I may be more confident, but I'm still uncomfortable with crowds.

The day is warm and slightly humid, as I slowly wander up behind the little chapel, leaving everyone behind to speak freely with acquaintances. I enjoy the peace and quiet as I meander through the cemetery. I eventually wend my way to a low stone wall, to sit under the shade of a large Magnolia. Behind me, gravestones border the cemetery wall. Sometimes, I read the names and ages on the stones, pondering what their lives may have been like, knowing they were well loved by the care and flowers their graves still receive.

I'm lost in these musings and caught off guard when Reverend Jenks suddenly appears a few feet before me. "So, you must be the young woman who is known as 'the one with no name.' I've seen you before, but this is the first time I've truly looked at you," he smiles, trying for a benevolent look, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Not when his eyes are solely focused on my chest. "Tell me miss, what did you think of today's sermon?"

His eyes take in every curve of my body and I'm extremely uncomfortable. I feel as if he's mentally taking my measurements and is pleased with the results. I don't allow my voice to show how nervous he's made me when I respond with a simple, "It was good," in a mixed up version of my real voice and Billy's huskier one.

His eyes snap to my mouth and then they slowly rise to finally find where my eyes are located. His eyes are filled with desire and his voice deepens as he replies, "I appreciate your candor. You're not trying to flatter me and tell me it was the best sermon you ever heard."

I'm tense and I don't know how to respond. As he walks closer to me he notices my stiffening shoulders. "Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you." He coos as if he's talking to a child. "I like to welcome those in my congregation with a simple hug and a kiss on the cheek." His leer gives me the creeps and I instantly remember Mr. Denali. My body tenses and I'm ready to strike. And strike I do, when he put his hands on my shoulders and tries to pull me up towards his lowering mouth.

Emmett and Seth have taken great pleasure in constantly surprising me with attacks as part of my training. Because of this, I'm well prepared for his sudden movements as I instinctively bring one hand up under his jaw, clicking his teeth together. Then I close my fist, hitting him in the Adam's apple. At the same time, I sweep my foot up, kicking him in his manhood, while pushing him away. As he stumbles backwards; I race to stand behind him.

Reverend Jenks is buckled over in pain and cursing like a demon. Since his backside presents itself so nicely, I raise my foot, landing it square on his bottom and shove him forward. Off balance, his knees hit the low wall as he topples over, face first onto a gravestone with a satisfying crunch to his nose.

Several members of the church witnessed the scene and come to me, asking if I'm alright. A moaning Reverend Jenks is aided to his feet by Mr. McCarty. The Reverend has one hand covering his nose and the other rubbing his manhood. Mr. McCarty politely inquires, "Reverend Jenks, are you all right?"

This time Reverend Jenks looks directly in my eyes with no detours, as he spouts angrily, "That little she-devil accosted me for no good reason. I believe I will be pressing charges after her egregious assault. She's a little hellion and shouldn't be allowed out in public."

Renee, bless her soul, speaks up, "Reverend Jenks, might I remind you of your sermon of not more than 15 minutes ago?"

Reverend Jenks looks from Renee to me as a sly spark enters his eyes. It seems as if he's contemplating her words and finds they have merit. "I might be able to forgive her if, and only if, she spends some time with me in afternoon prayers." Then his eyes do rake my figure up and down again.

Mr. McCarty takes a moment thinking about the Reverend's idea having watched his eyes before he responds, "I hope you will forgive her and me also, for that matter, Reverend."

Reverend Jenks pulls his wicked gaze away from me as he looks up to Mr. McCarty, thoroughly confused, wondering aloud, "Why, what have you done?"

Mr. McCarty ducks his head as if he's embarrassed and then smiles. "Well, this," he replies, as he proceeds to pummel the good Reverend in his jaw, cheek and mouth. A growl ripped from his throat as he spoke again, "If you _ever_ attempt to put your hands or mouth on Bella or any other unwilling young lady or child again, you _will_ get more of the same."

Though he's in great pain, the Reverend whips his head around, squinting his eyes at me as he stammers, "Bella? As in Bella Swan?" Continuing his perusal of my features from some internal check list, he names me. "So, you're Bella Swan."

As soon as my name escapes his lips, I freeze and then my body starts to shake violently. The Reverend's scrutiny scares me almost as much as Riley Biers' threat. He knows! He knows who I am! No one knew my name here and as soon as Mr. McCarty sees my expression, he understands immediately his error and he's devastated. He looks to Renee and her eyes are on me. She knows right then and there, I will never attend church again, but more importantly, I will leave this town. I turn and run. I run so fast, I actually make it back home, locking myself in my room before the vehicle loaded with Renee, Alice, Emmett and Mr. McCarty pulled in front of the house.

Reverend Jenks left that night under the cloak of darkness, taking the funds from the coffer, a pair of gold candlesticks and anything else of value from the church. Of course the law was after him. What I feared was, he knew Riley and was currently on his way to inform him of where I could be found. Every day that dawned from then on found me withering away in fright. Not even Billy gave me comfort.

**~ J *+* D ~**

After two weeks I couldn't take the stress any longer. Every noise sent me jumping. Every shadow I passed I knew Riley was waiting. In my own home I felt trapped. Finally, Mr. McCarty and Renee realized it was useless to try to talk me into staying. I'm 19 and can legally venture out on my own. We all know it's not usually done without a proper escort, but I can no longer fight the urge to flee. My sanity was at stake.

Instead, they focus on where they feel I might be safest. The consensus is a larger city, such as New York, will make it easier to blend into the populous. I don't like the idea of crowds and they are aware of this. It doesn't stop them from pressing the issue. Both Renee and Mr. McCarty agreed it would be wiser for them to continue living here for the time being, until the dust settles. Should Riley come, he wouldn't find me here and hopefully, they will be able to alert the police to capture and arrest him.

Later in the day, Alice, Emmett, Seth and I were sitting on the grass in the back yard discussing my options. Emmett, tired of all the arguing, snaps, "Look Bella, for right now just go along with them. We'll get on the train and check out the various towns along the way. If one strikes your fancy, we'll collect our bags and look for a place to live and work," he sighs as if it's as easy as pie.

"What do you mean, we?" His sudden outburst confuses me. We've only been deliberating where I was going – or so I thought.

"Just what it sounds like! You and me. You don't think I'd let you go off on your own, do you?" He glares at me, as if the idea is preposterous.

"Emmett, what the hell? I can't ask you to uproot and leave your dad. You both have already sacrificed so much for Renee and me. Renee wants to stay here. She's settled in and loves her job. Your dad has forfeited so much already. I can't take you with me," I retort, again wondering where in the sam hill this idea was coming from.

"Bella, I'm a grown man. Do you honestly think I want to live with my dad for the rest of my life?" His brow furrows and he looks incredulous. "I can get a job anywhere, but I love you like a sister and I'm not about to let you go off on your own," he loudly exhales, tired of the argument already.

"Um, Bella? I hope you don't think you're going to leave without me," Alice looks insulted as she scowls at me.

"But Alice, you have a job that you love. Think of all the training you're getting. I figured you would want to stay here, where you've been happy. And you would be looking out for Renee and keeping her company. I, I…don't want her be lonely," I stammer. This is not how I figured this conversation would go.

"Bella, Renee will be just fine. You're my best friend and I'm not going to lose you. I'm rather shocked and disappointed you think I wouldn't want to go!" She crosses her arms and puffs out a loud, "Humph." I can only stare in surprise.

"So…Bella." Seth pipes up, as he starts rubbing the back of his neck as if he's embarrassed. "Since we're all talking about those who will be going with you, you might as well know, I'm planning on following all of you for several reasons. One, I don't have family here." He looks at all three of us with a smile. "You all have become my family and Emmett is my best friend. Two, I work in a garage and I can find a job anywhere. Three, I agree with Emmett, you and Alice can't be left on your own." Then he took a breath and forgot about numbering his reasons. "I think two protectors are better than one. We'll find a place to live. Pool our monies and live quite comfortably. Plus, I love your cooking. If you leave, who would feed me? I'd get tired of the food from the café," he grins, as if this is the most important part of his argument.

I look at all of them and feel as if I've run into a brick wall. Of course, I was dreading leaving and living on my own, but I would never have asked them to give up their homes, friends or family for me. Suddenly, the wall falls away and I'm now gazing at three of the most important people in my life. Emmett, my brother in so many ways. Alice, my dearest and best friend. Seth, my best male friend. I know if I was dressed as Billy, these stupid tears wouldn't be welling in my eyes. But, today I'm me and my gaze moves from one dearly loved face to another.

"You're willing to give up so much for me," I murmur as a tear breaks free, sliding down my cheek. I try to control my emotions, but it's no use. "I'm the luckiest person in the world to have you as friends. You each mean so much to me. Thank you. I don't honestly know how I would survive without you," I whisper.

And just like that, we enjoy our standard group hug we've perfected over time, and then they all start talking excitedly as one about our new adventure. I lean back and enjoy their animation. Life is not always perfect, but right now, I feel safe and it feels good.

**~ J *+* D ~**

It doesn't take long for us to enlighten Renee and Mr. McCarty about our momentous conversation. Both are extremely pleased knowing I won't be alone. Truth be told, I feel they were actually counting on this happening. They know of our strong bonds and the new plan greatly eased their troubled minds. When we determined where we would settle, they would ship us any belongings or furniture we might want or need.

We each had been saving our monies from our jobs. Renee dipped into her small savings and thrust $500 into my pocket in a fit of irritation after I tried to persuade her to save it. She wouldn't have it. Emmett had brought over a map and we discussed the various towns we would pass on our way to New York. We planned to only purchase tickets to each town, thereby saving our money to look around before we decided whether to continue. Mr. McCarty, however, paid for round trip train tickets to New York for each of us the day before our departure. Mr. McCarty explained that if things didn't work out, we each had a way to return. If we decided on a place to stay, then we could cash in the balance of our tickets for extra money to help us get by until we found jobs.

Seth and Emmett sold their trucks so they would be able to buy replacements once we reached our destination. Alice's salon gave her going away gifts of makeup, hair products and lotions. A regular customer, Laura Upthegrove, who always took the time to talk to Alice and knew much of her history, gave her a hug and cryptically whispered in her ear, "Visit the shed." Confused and curious, Alice nodded her head as she was pulled away by the owner. The owner gave Alice a blonde wig she had always admired. She told Alice to continue practicing her styling skills, admitting, "You show great promise of being a beautician someday. Keep up the good work."

When Alice returned home, she told me about the gifts and the strange message. She asked me to go with her to the shed. She opened the door slowly and finding it empty of man or animal, began to look around. She found the book _Huckleberry Finn_ lying in a corner, and brought it out into the sunlight and opened it. On the title page is a handwritten note which she read out loud.

_A, _

_When I saw this book, it reminded me of the first time I saw you. A young scrappy boy running away from home. We didn't float down the Mississippi, but we did ride the rails. When I told my wife about you, she became intrigued. She has been watching out for you monthly since we parted ways. She tells me you've grown into a lovely, cheerful, intelligent young woman. And now you are leaving for parts unknown with your friends. Strong friendships are hard to find and I'm happy for you. You deserve the world and we wanted to help you and yours on this new journey. Keep our address safe and look us up should you ever need a helping hand. Take care, little one. Your friends, JA and LU. _

Alice chokes up fighting the tears that threaten as she read the last line. She flips through the pages and nestled in between is a fifty dollar bill. She's crying and laughing at the same time as she continues to flip through the pages, handing me the bills she finds. When she's flipped all the pages of the book several times over, she whimpers, "Oh, John. How much I adore you. And Laura is his wife? I never would have known. She's always been so nice to me." Wiping the tears from her face, trying to get hold of her emotions, she whispers, "How much?"

I'm trying to get a hold of my own reaction as I softly reply, "One thousand dollars."

"One thousand dollars!?" She squeaks and rushes on, "Holy smokes! I can't believe they did that. This will help us so much. This is incredible."

"No, Alice. This is your money. You save it for when you need it," I protest. John and Laura were her friends. They did this for her.

"No, Bella. John and Laura made it clear this was for friendship. They know Billy and Renee took me in. They know Emmett and Seth have also looked out for me. They did this for all of us." And there was no arguing with her once her mind was set. The next day she stopped by the salon with a few thank you notes. One was left for Laura Upthegrove with a note inside for John Ashley.

We were all a bit emotional when we said our goodbyes to Renee and Mr. McCarty at the train station. Simultaneously afraid of the unknown and excited because of it.

**~ J *+* D ~**

And this brings me back to the here and now. When the train had a layover for the loading and unloading of passengers for longer than an hour, we would disembark and head to a café while we looked through the local newspapers. Mechanics were always needed. At times, the need for a beautician was listed or help wanted for cafés or diners. There wasn't something for all of us though. We continue on until we stopped in Birmingham, Alabama. As usual, we left the train and are seated in a corner booth away from the few customers sitting at the counter, reading the local help wanted section for here in the city or in the outlying towns.

Of course, a local garage had an opening for both an apprentice and a master mechanic. Over the last three years, Seth received the greatest hands-on training from his mentor, an old man who could not only fix automobiles, but also farm machinery, industrial equipment and household appliances. There wasn't a piece of machinery he couldn't fix and he passed this knowledge on to Seth.

Emmett becomes excited when he spies a need for prison guards with training included. He knows how to shoot any type of rifle or gun, and he's never lost a fight. Many fights were won just by him flexing his muscles. The only time he did fight was when the instigator had at least four on his side and felt the odds were in his favor. They soon found out how wrong they were.

Alice is thrilled when she sees an ad for a funeral home in need of someone who can give family and friends a lovely lasting memory of the dearly departed. "They need a beautician!" She squeals in delight.

"Alice! You could do that? You would truly be okay putting cosmetics on a dead person?" I shiver at the very notion.

"Of course! They wouldn't be that different than some of the old biddies who came into the salon," she shrugs her shoulders and then a wicked glint appears in her eyes. "Plus, I wouldn't have to lie and tell them how beautiful they look," she giggles. I can only stare at her, still not finding the idea appealing.

"Look at it this way, I can mix my own colors and think of it as painting on a canvas. If I make them look natural and beautiful instead of the orange rouge and bright red lipstick some of those women wear, I might even get a tip from the grateful family." Her eyes are already far away, envisioning her potential new job and leaving her mark on the newly departed. Emmett and Seth are snickering at her.

"What about you, Billy? Do you see anything you might be interested in?" Emmett laughs, still shaking his head at Alice.

"Well," I shrug, "It would be easy to get a job working in any of the restaurants, cafés, bars and clubs. Some have entertainment. Maybe, I could be Billy during the day and someone else at night. You know, like sing or something," I snort as I joke with him.

"That's it! You could be a singer, Billy! You have the most wonderful voice. You can do opera or you could use your sultry voice singing ballads. We could call you something exotic like Lucretia or Aphrodite or Tatiana. Maybe not Lucretia, she had dark hair and you need to be a blonde. I have just the wig for you," Alice's laughs and her enthusiasm is contagious. Emmett and Seth both weigh the idea and then nod in agreement. I'm a fairly good singer, but I'm still not sure about the entertainment part. I was only joking. I'm comfortable in Billy's shoes.

"I'll think about it, Alice," I side step the issue for now. "Well, do we make this a permanent stop or do we continue?"

"I say we stay," Emmett votes.

"I would love to practice my makeup skills if I get the job. I really want to try," Alice excitedly answers.

"I'm in," Seth enthusiastically responds. Then they all look at me.

I'm grinning because I think we just found our new home. "Then let's get our bags. If the jobs pan out and we like it here, we can cash in our tickets." Emmett and Seth practically trip over each other in their haste to get our bags. I happily sling my arm around Alice's shoulder and we follow at a more leisurely pace.

"Billy, I think it would be good for you to be someone else for a change. I don't want you to lose a part of yourself always being Billy. You're so rarely yourself anymore and I miss the real you," Alice quietly comments. Her words ring true, I am Billy all the time now, except when I sleep and sometimes even then. It's second nature for everyone to call me Billy when I'm in his clothes. Even I feel myself losing touch with who I really am, hiding in his persona.

"So, you really think I should be this Tatiana or Tanya or whatever?" I muse out loud.

"Tanya, what a charming name. I could create the most beautiful Russian princess who sings like a dream. You would have men begging you to sing just to them. Of course, we would all be there to protect you. Honestly though, Billy, wouldn't you like to be a bit more feminine every now and then?" She slyly hints, not letting go of the idea.

And the truth of the matter is, yes. Yes, I would like to be more feminine. But, not as Bella. A different female. It's an intriguing thought. The idea starts to take hold and I find I like it more and more as the seconds tick by. Finally, I look at Alice, squeeze her shoulder, smile and whisper, "Yes, Alice. I do like the idea. We'll see how well you can work your magic and turn me into a Russian princess."

Her smile is huge and I'm reminded once again how lucky I am to have her and the guys as my friends.

**~ J *+* D ~**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks to Lilith and Ficfangirl for making this chapter so much better. And thank you to those who read, review and PM. Many have been waiting to hear about Father Masen. Hope this answers many of your questions. Oh, and all errors are mine! :)**

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment."**

**~ Jane Austen ~**

**Waiting for Carlisle after Edward Masen's arrest**

**Chapter 7**

**Esme**

I have been up all night worrying about Carlisle. He should have been home last night by 9:00 after his shift ended at the hospital. It's not like him to forget to send word to let me know he's running late. When he did finally arrive home at 7:00 this morning, he was exhausted and enraged. Carlisle has never displayed such anger. Instead of going to bed as he should have, he ranted about how a Constable brainwashed members of his staff, the staff in general and then unkind words for the administrator. I'm trying to follow the story and I realize it has to do with the woman I read about in the morning paper.

I ask him to slow down and he starts from the beginning. Once I've heard the whole story from his point of view, I understand his frustration. My husband is a good judge of character and an honest man. If he says the young priest didn't do it, then he didn't do it! It's as simple as that.

After his ire has abated, I point him in the direction of the bedroom. He needs to rest his body and clear his head, then we can discuss what he will do. It's worrisome to decide if he should testify or not. Bottom line, if he does, he will lose his job. A job he loves! I can't believe the administrator would give him such an ultimatum. But, I know my Carlisle. He _will_ testify. Miss Mallory said, 'Not the priest.' How can you not defend someone wrongly accused?

It's just like Carlisle to aid someone in need. I smile to myself as I'm reminded how we met eight years ago. I was a debutante from a plantation gasping its last breath, about one hundred miles east of Birmingham, Alabama. My father was adamant I choose from one of the many suitors vying for my hand. I was his last hope of resurrecting our home to its former glory.

**~ J *+* D ~**

My suitors all came from wealthy, well-established families. All of them only interested in my pretty face and the potential wealth the plantation would bring to them with the right management and backing. They didn't care about my opinions, thoughts or desires. I was to be a silent woman. Like the image of a woman with her head missing which hangs on the outside of a local tavern. A pretty ornament to be presented to the world on their arm. A bearer of future offspring. I was expected to become part of the vapid social community, whose sole entertainment was to criticize and demoralize those of lesser means, while touting the vast accomplishments of my husband.

I did want to be a wife and mother someday, but I also had other aspirations. I wanted to help those in our community less fortunate than myself. My ultimate goal was to work in the medical field. My mother had lost her life giving birth to me. Had conditions been different, maybe she would still be alive. Nurses were in high demand and I felt it was the perfect occupation for me. Unfortunately, with the plantation going under, any dreams of attending nursing school were squashed.

None of my suitors saw a floundering plantation as a problem. But all of them rejected the idea of a working wife and couldn't understand or care about my dreams. My father demanded that I attend the last Debutante Ball of the season. It was my final chance to catch a worthwhile husband as far as he was concerned. He was putting all his eggs in my basket in the hopes of saving our ancestral home. I told my friend, Bree, "I would rather go unescorted than be seen with any of the eligible swains my father deems appropriate."

Bree, was one of the lucky few. She was not only beautiful, but the only female I personally knew who actually _was_ living the dream of obtaining a higher education. She understood my desire to escape the cattle market frenzy, which was my opinion of these balls. Men staring at you and appraising your worth, then bidding against each other on who would win the best of show. "I know of the perfect man for you. He's single and a friend of my fiancé. I could ask if he would be your escort. We'd have a lot of fun and you could maintain distance from the birds of prey," Bree excitedly announced.

I honestly didn't care. I had to be on someone's arm. What did it matter if I knew him or not? None of the other men cared to know _me_.

Carlisle, I was told days later, was attending medical school in Birmingham and readily agreed to be my escort. The evening of the ball, I was at Bree's home readying myself in what would probably be the last beautiful dress I would ever wear. Having been informed our escorts had arrived, we glided down her sweeping staircase and I gratefully received my first view of him. He was tall, with blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a lovely shy smile on his face as he observed my descent. I was mesmerized by his good looks, and thrilled I took pains to primp myself for this last hurrah. When we were introduced, I was enchanted by his English accent, and I swear, it was love at first sight.

That evening we talked for hours about anything and everything. I told him of my desire to attend nursing school and he encouraged me. A first! He told me about his medical classes and how he hoped to work someday in a large hospital and in his later years to have his own small private practice. We danced, flirted and I enjoyed my time with him, immensely. I didn't accept any other invitations to my dance card and the brave souls who tried to cut in were easily ignored.

As the evening came to a close, Carlisle drove me home and walked me up the steps to the verandah. Ever the gentleman, he placed a kiss on each of my hands while looking in my eyes, furthering the flutter of butterflies in my stomach, before asking if he could call again the next day. I giddily agreed. Still holding my hands, he attempted to leave me with a simple kiss on the cheek, but I wanted more. I turned my head and enjoyed my first sweet peck on the lips. Then a boldness overtook my senses as I stood on tiptoes, capturing his mouth once again, with a more passionate kiss. Minutes later, we were interrupted by a loud clearing of the throat from just inside the window. I could see my father's silhouette and knew it was time for him to leave.

Once Carlisle left, with a promise to come to supper the next day, I opened the door and walked inside. Standing five feet in front of me was my angry father. He turned grand inquisitor, wondering who Carlisle was and why I wasn't with one of the local men he knew. Once more, I told him I had no interest in any of the _boys_ he deemed suitable. His wrath was intense as he bellowed about my selfishness. How I had no respect for my family, our values, welfare or plantation.

I responded that those were his goals, not mine. Was that all I was to him? A pawn to keep _his_ dreams alive?

He repeated, for the millionth time, that he wished I had been born a boy. Then I would have understood and appreciated his feelings and concerns. I kept quiet so as not to spit out a retort I would regret. Just because I'm female doesn't make me an idiot! I know what's at stake. Is it my fault he ran the plantation into the ground with his gambling? As I said, it was better I kept my mouth shut.

**~ J *+* D ~**

Carlisle did come for dinner the next evening and it was excruciatingly awkward. My father was on his worst behavior, already three sheets to the wind, eulogizing all of my flaws, in the hopes Carlisle would see the truth and leave.

Another argument ensued when I'd had enough of his insults and asked Carlisle to take a walk with me. Carlisle was such a dear and calmed me down. He explained that while my father was beyond rude, he could understand how hard it must be for him. To know he would not only be losing his home, but also, whether I married a local man or not, he was losing his only child.

Then he kissed me, and told me my father's opinion didn't make any difference to him. He wanted to keep seeing me and I sighed in relief. Over two hours had passed as we made our way back to the house. I hoped within this time my father had gained control of his senses. Carlisle needed to leave soon, since he had classes the next day. He wanted to thank my father for dinner and was confident he would be welcomed back. We looked in the dining room, but he wasn't there. Carlisle followed me into his office and that's where we found him.

My father must have tripped in a drunken haze. In his fall, his bolo tie caught the edge of his office chair. His weight couldn't tip the chair over, since the seat was lodged under the desk. He must have passed out and effectively strangled himself on his confederate flag tie clip. Carlisle attempted to revive him, but by the color of his features, he could only surmise he had been gone for a while.

The authorities ruled it an accidental death. Carlisle gave me comfort and Bree helped me with the funeral arrangements. With Carlisle and Bree both attending classes, I was the only one left on the plantation. We hadn't been able to retain any of the hired help after the harvest was complete. My father's gambling had quickly depleted all proceeds.

It wasn't long before the vultures descended. Men came out of the woodwork vying for my hand in marriage. It was widely known the land produced fine quality cotton. Some were so persistent, it required the use of a shot gun to motivate their departure. I was a crack shot and could hit a tin can from 50 yards away. It was something my father taught me in my younger years for protection from wild animals and the occasional poisonous snake. I never dreamt it would come in handy against other predators. But it most certainly did now.

For six months, I stayed on the plantation by myself, except weekends when Carlisle would come to stay. Most of the time was spent with Carlisle studying, while I kept busy with paperwork and figuring out how much, if any, of the land and my ancestral home I would keep. Strangely enough, after all the arguments and heartache my father and I went through regarding this piece of property, I couldn't bear to let any of it go. Carlisle finally took the decision out of my hands when he suggested, "Esme, you don't have to decide right now. I have more than enough money to pay the taxes and any bills. Take your time to think things through. Who knows, we might find city life too exasperating and want to come back to live in the country." And just like that, the worrisome burden that plagued me was over.

Once Carlisle graduated, he made an honest woman out of me. We married in a small ceremony on the plantation and then boarded it up. Carlisle was offered and accepted a position here in La Porte. It was a stepping stone for him and I invested my time taking classes on women's health and helping with the needs of others through various charity organizations. Both of my dreams fulfilled.

**~ J *+* D ~**

The next day I had the great pleasure of making the acquaintance of Miss Rosalie Hale. She introduced herself as an investigator on the case of Mr. Masen. Her partner, Mr. Uley, was representing him and she was hoping Dr. Cullen had a few minutes to spare. I liked her immediately. She is a beautiful, intelligent, no nonsense woman, who knew what she wanted to do and didn't care if she had the looks to grace the covers of high end fashion magazines.

I led her into our den explaining that currently, Carlisle was on administrative leave and had ample time to spare. Of course, I knew this would pique her interest and it did. I introduced her to Carlisle who was reading various papers following anything to do with Mr. Masen's case. Carlisle explained my earlier remark to Rose, as we were asked to call her, and she wrote down his version of the events. She was incensed at the underhanded ways of Constable Apep. Rose questioned Carlisle a few times, to ensure the information was accurate regarding Miss Mallory's last words.

Rose was winding down her interview when Carlisle asked, "Would you do me a favor?" When Rose nods, he continues, "Will you check Mr. Masen's hands for me?" Rose lifts a brow in silent curiosity. Carlisle rushes to explain, "For him to have perpetrated this crime, his hands should have some form of bruising, cuts or scrapes from the battering Miss Mallory received. Even if he wore gloves, there would still be significant swelling."

Rose notes his comments in her notebook with a small smile lifting her mouth. When she finishes, she looks directly at Carlisle as she assures him, "When I first met Mr. Masen, I shook his hand and there were no noticeable markings. His hands were folded in front of me and I would have noticed any of the injuries which you just described. His demeanor clearly showed me he had nothing to hide."

Carlisle nodded his head, accepting her answer. "One more thing. Can you see if his cassock was ripped or if he was missing a button?" He quietly asks.

Rose cocks her head to the side, "His cassock was taken from him, but his other clothes seemed to be intact. Why do you ask?"

Carlisle flushes and then stands to retrieve his medical bag. He pulls out a white cloth and, returning to his seat, he hands it to Rose. "I probably should have given it to Constable Apep as possible evidence, but he had me so irate I couldn't see straight."

Rose unfolds the cloth and takes note of the button and material. She gazes at Carlisle, "Where did you get this?"

Carlisle looks sheepish, "It was held tightly in one of Miss Mallory's hands. She fought with her assailant. She could have pulled the button and material from him. I don't honestly know where it came from. I just want you to have it. Maybe it will help." Carlisle shrugs his shoulders.

Rose smiles brightly at him, "I'll give it to Sam and see what we can do. Thank you, Carlisle, very much."

Carlisle looks extremely relieved and asks, "How is Mr. Masen holding up?"

Rose answers by shaking her head at first and then she adds, "I'll be honest with you. I don't think he's holding up well at all. A more desolate man I have never met." At this point, I know Carlisle is determined to take the stand. His integrity won't let him allow an innocent man to die.

Carlisle left soon after Rose did, to speak with the hospital administrator. Hoping against hope, he would have a change of heart. He didn't. And Carlisle lost his job.

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**My upbringing taught me to be pure of heart and have complete faith in God. It's only then will I be heard and my desires rewarded. Now I've learn the truth. God is deaf to me."**

**~ Edward Masen ~ **

**Edward**

Two months have slowly passed while I sit idly in a cell waiting for the trial to begin. The only changes have been when I was transferred to the County lock up in Houston where the trial will take place. I've had numerous visits from Sam and Rose filled with new questions and advice about what to expect. Twice, Father Michael has come and prayed with me in my cell. Otherwise, the days are mind numbing and quiet. I'm not allowed to be in with the general jail population for fear I would meet the end of my days with violence from inmates who don't like men harming or killing women. It was not the kind of solitude that allows you to relax, meditate and let a peacefulness settle over you. No, it was the type of loneliness where you count the number of bricks in the wall, you count the hours by minutes, the minutes by seconds. You count your heartbeats and breaths, just to ensure you do indeed exist.

**~ J *+* D ~**

For the first two days of the trial, witnesses for the prosecution gave their statements. Constable Laurent Apep's testimony alone took up one day. We learned it was he who insinuated to the press that Miss Mallory was of the same profession as the previous women who were found in the same alley, with the same wounds on the same date only years apart. When Sam questioned him on his theory, Constable Apep answered, "You get a feel for people's true nature."

"Has your opinion changed and will you admit this was not Miss Mallory's profession," Sam asked.

"I will agree Miss Mallory was a fulltime seamstress. I'm not positive if Miss Mallory couldn't have led a double life. Now, we will never know now, will we? Constable Apep sneered directly at me. "Mr. Mason saw to that."

"Objection, your honor, Mr. Masen is innocent unless proven guilty and I request Constable Apep's last remark be stricken from the record." Sam is incensed.

"I'll allow it. You asked his opinion, Mr. Uley. Be careful with your questions," Judge Banner chastised.

Constable Apep snickers at Sam's reddening face.

I'm the first to take the stand for my defense. I'm able to fully explain the events of the day in great detail. I answer Sam's and the prosecutor's questions, never once faltering from the truth. Father Michael confirmed he had asked me to meet with the parishioners at the end of the sermon. Two parishioners confirm how late it was when I left the church and my pleasant demeanor. I wasn't anxious or frustrated with how they kept me from my evening meal. It was verified I never reached the refectory, so I had no time to collect a knife.

The next two witnesses for the defense are Mrs. Jessica Stanley and Mrs. Cope. Mrs. Stanley admits she knew who I was because she attended my church, however, I never came to her home and Lauren never mentioned me. Mrs. Cope testifies she had never seen me at her shop, nor did Lauren ever mention a man she was interested in, as recorded in her journal. She also adamantly denies that Lauren was anything other than a full time seamstress. The prosecution points out, based on her journal, Miss Mallory never noted the 'man in black,' visited her home or place of employment.

Next, Dr. Carlisle Cullen is called to testify, since he was the next to arrive at the scene. He point outs under Sam's careful questioning, "Mr. Masen had time to run and wouldn't have called for help if he were the assailant." He explains, "Miss Mallory, never accused Mr. Masen of the crime. Only that she feared a man in black."

He also states, "Constable Apep tried repeatedly to coax her to name her assailant. He also asked specifically if the priest did it. Later, Miss Mallory, with her dying breath, clearly stated, 'Not the priest.'" I breathe out a sigh of relief. Thank you, God!

He's asked if he's employed. Dr. Cullen explains that he lost his position due to his belief that the other nurses and doctors had made an error in judgment. The hospital can't afford to have discord within the ranks, without it affecting the patients' wellbeing. He chose to protect an innocent man, in his opinion, over his career and no one was going to change his mind. I'm shocked, humbled and grateful this man put so much faith in my innocence and I'm horrified he gave up his position to save me.

The prosecution attacks him. He's asked if he is a detective or a criminologist. He admits he is a doctor, formally at the hospital. "But it doesn't make my opinions any less credible." He cautiously verifies how Miss Mallory looked at me and screamed, 'I don't want to die.' In his opinion, "She was not accusing him of the crime, but hopeful that prayer could save her life."

Dr. Cullen is asked about the drugs Miss Mallory was given in the hospital. He tries to explain how the morphine the woman was given could have made her agitated and caused her to hallucinate, so any ramblings which the hospital staff heard shouldn't be considered as facts in this case. As soon as the words left his mouth he immediately knew he made a mistake.

"Well then, by your assertion, her last words should also be excluded from these proceedings," the prosecutor snidely concludes.

"Only if you concede the same would hold true for all the statements by the attending nurses, physicians and the Constable who have already testified," Dr. Cullen snarls.

When he is asked what most of this coworkers and patient thought of him, Carlisle stiffly answers, "I hope most would think of me as intelligent, honest, efficient and compassionate."

"Compassionate. This is a synonym for kindhearted, is it not?" The prosecutor questions.

"Yes, yes, I suppose it is," Dr. Cullen warily agrees.

"Well, don't you think your compassionate nature might lead you to be blind to the monster who killed Miss Lauren Mallory?"

Dr. Cullen strongly disagrees, "No," and tries to continue with his answer.

However, the prosecutor turns as he speaks to the judge and nods to the jury, "No more questions."

Sam Uley tries to have the remarks stricken from the record, but the Judge allows it. He is given the chance to let Dr. Cullen finish his answer. Dr. Cullen looks directly to the jurors as he eagerly replies. "Working in a hospital, I have seen the best and the worst of humanity. I've had to put aside my opinions of murderers and rapists as I tended to their wounds, before they were taken into custody. I believe I can recognize a man's true character and Mr. Masen is not a monster." He maintains eye contact with them as he emphatically states, "He's a man who tried to assist a young women in her last hours on this earth. He did not take her life."

The jury now seems to be uncertain as they mull over his words. The outcome of their decision unclear; when at first it appeared to them to be a clear and simple murder trial. Dr. Cullen looks both angry and defeated, yet his testimony has affected them. The tide may be turning due to his staunch support.

**~ J *+* D ~**

I'm returned to my cell after court ends for the day. Sam informed me that tomorrow he would be presenting his closing arguments. It's his opinion, Dr. Cullen's testimony has changed quite of few of the jurors' minds and he truly believed I would be a free man by the end of the day.

Father Michael is allowed to visit me again in my cell. We speak about the services he's conducted and how various parishioners are lighting candles daily on my behalf, while keeping me in their prayers. I'm grateful for their belief in my innocence. Then we both pray for my salvation.

As Father Michael is about to leave, he quietly asks, "Would you like me to ask if it's possible for you to go to church before court tomorrow?"

His subtle question confuses me for a moment until I realize he is offering me sanctuary within the confines of the church walls. I shake my head at him, "No. Thank you, Father, but no. I believe justice will be served. My faith in God will protect me from these atrocious accusations. It sustains me."

Father Michael gently smiles and nods as he leaves the cell.

**~ J *+* D ~**

It's late in the afternoon and the prosecutor is first up with his closing arguments. He speaks how this is an open and shut case. He ends his speech with, "It's simple, really. Mr. Mason is found with a woman who is mortally wounded. A knife is found with the markings of the refectory he attends daily. Miss Mallory, we believe, identified her assailant as a 'man in black.' I know how hard it must be to think of a priest as a murderer. But a priest is merely a man, after all. No more, no less. No man is perfect and the same holds true of Mr. Masen." Then he smiles at the jurors as he turns and takes his seat.

Sam rises and walks to the jury box. He looks at all of them as he reminds them, "Yes, Mr. Masen is man. He is a man of faith, who was a few weeks away from becoming a fully ordained priest. He was excited, looking forward to relocating to a church of his own, and continuing his life's work."

A major point of contention during the trial was the fact that Miss Mallory was not the first victim found in her condition, in that particular alley. It had happened at least four other times in the last five years and my whereabouts were easily verified when the prior incidents occurred. The prior victims were known ladies of ill repute. It was suggested Miss Mallory was of like employment until Sam refuted those statements, clearing her reputation once and for all. The description of the victim and the modus operandi was the same in each attack. A blonde haired woman, badly beaten and stabbed. The only differences in my case were: one - a damning weapon had been found; and two - a semi-conscious victim who tried to name her assailant as best she could, while in fear of death.

He emphasizes the timeline for the events of that fateful evening, including the time parishioners verified I left the church in a pleasant spirits, my excitement contagious for my coming adventure, the time it would have taken me to get to the refectory for the purpose of acquiring a knife, gaining the attention of Lauren Mallory, and then luring her to the back of the alley to do the deed.

He points out there was no motive for me to assault Miss Mallory and reminds them of the effort I made trying to save her life. Yes, there was blood on my hands, but no bruises, lacerations or swelling which should have been visible had I physically harmed her in the manner which was described to them. There was not a mark on me anywhere.

He reminds them that Dr. Cullen lost his job due to his belief in my innocence. Years invested in study and then practice to achieve his ultimate goal of becoming a doctor, only to throw it all away trying to save one man he doesn't even know, all because he believes in my innocence. He relates how Dr. Cullen operated on Miss Mallory and stayed with her to the very end. He was witness to Miss Mallory speaking her final words, 'Not the priest.'

He recaps by noting, "Mr. Mason was wearing black that evening, but so was the good Dr. Cullen and Constable Apep. All the men who came to her aid were also wearing black or dark brown. Black is an extremely popular color for men's clothing. Why, look at Judge Banner. His robes are black." The Judge scowls at him and the jury notices.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please bear in mind, Miss Lauren Mallory did not say a priest did this to her or accuse Mr. Masen directly. In fact, she never even attended his church. She only spoke of a 'man in black.' She wrote of her admiration of him in her journal, but never named him. Mr. Masen is a victim of circumstances. You've listened to the evidence. Use your heart, if not your head. Don't put away an innocent man. Thank you," he quietly ends his speech and returns to our table.

The jury seems troubled by Sam's words and it gives me a greater hope that I will see justice served.

Judge Banner clears his throat after Sam is seated. He looks at me, my counsel and then the jury. "Gentlemen of the jury. This is a difficult case. It is not black and white as most cases are. It's muddied and gray. After listening to the closing arguments, I feel it would be a grave injustice if you were given no choice other than murder in the first degree. So, with this thought in mind, I will also give you the option of the lesser charge of involuntary manslaughter. I now ask you to leave the courtroom to deliberate. Court is in recess until the jury has reached its verdict."

The jury doesn't move right away. It's as if the whole courtroom is stunned into silence. Then chaos ensues as gasps, shouts and arguments are heard from the gallery. Sam swears under his breath and Rose is outraged by this turn of events. They both look at each other in some sort of silent communication. Rose raises her brows and Sam weakly nods his head.

I'm confused as to why they're so rattled, so I interrupt their silent debate, "What's wrong? I don't understand what's happened."

Sam breaks eye contact with Rose and looks down at his hands gripping the table. He looks across to the prosecutor who returns his glare with a triumphant grin. Sam makes a deep rumbling noise, which I swear sounds like a dog growling and then shakes his head. He turns back and looks me in the eye, his eyes filled with remorse. "We had the majority of the jury on our side, Edward. We know," he nods his head to Rose, who nods hers in agreement, "they would have either come back with a not guilty verdict or a hung jury." He gnashes his teeth as he continues, "Now," he nods at Judge Banner who is banging his gavel trying to restore order to his court, "he has added a second option with a lesser charge where you will not automatically face a death sentence. Those who were on the fence, will probably settle for the lesser charge. They would have felt guilty sending a priest to the executioner, but not to prison, for the sake of their mortal souls. The Judge has effectively lightened their burdens and signed your life away."

As his words slowly start to sink in, two guards come up to the table and I rise in a confused state and I'm lead away back to my cell. Fear grips me as never before and I fall to my knees. I pray to my benevolent God, beseeching Him to save me from this insanity.

**~ J *+* D ~**

I remain on my knees for over eighteen hours, silently reciting every prayer I know and pleading for salvation. I pray for the jurors to believe I'm incapable of performing such an atrocious deed. Then I pray for their souls should they believe it. I give thanks to Him, for sending Dr. Cullen, Sam and Rose to me. Three people who have been unflagging in their belief.

At some point during the night, I feel, and then hear Father Mike kneeling next to me praying and I start voicing the prayers with him. Hours later, I feel his hand on my shoulder and then I hear him leave. I don't acknowledge him, but continue on with my silent litany.

My prayers are once again interrupted when I hear the doors open and the guards enter. One quietly speaks, "The jury is back. You need to come with us." I take a deep breath and quickly beg God to save me one last time. I try to stand, but my legs have been in the same position on the unforgiving concrete floor for far too long. They're numb and refuse to cooperate. Pain radiates down my bent neck to my toes, needles sharply stinging from the bottom of my feet, jumping up my legs and spine. The guards take pity on me and both gently raise me up and allow me sit on the bunk as my legs are seized in agony.

I gasp and beg, "Please, just give me a few minutes so I can walk on my own." They look at each other and then both nod. "Thank you, just a few minutes." I vigorously rub my calves and swollen knees, trying to bring back the circulation and it's excruciating. I grind my teeth and puff out air as the worst of the pain recedes.

I attempt to stand, then sway and fall back down onto the bunk. They both move to assist me, but I put up my hand to stay them. "I've got this, I do, let me try again." I grit out with determination. I want to go into the courtroom with my head held high. I did not commit this crime and I will not give the prosecutor a reason to gloat at my expense. With sheer willpower, I get up again and this time my legs stay under me. It's slow going to the courtroom, but once my legs are moving, they slowly return to normal.

Entering the side door, I see Sam and Rose sitting at our table. Rose shakes her head when she sees me and I wonder if I look as bad as I feel. Sam stands up and moves my chair out for me to sit. "What happened to him?" He questions one of the guards.

"From what we hear, as soon as he got into his cell yesterday, he fell to his knees and started praying. He didn't eat dinner, breakfast, drink or sleep at all. He just prayed," the guard answers with awe in his voice.

"Well, let's hope his prayers are answered," Sam mumbles under his breath.

"All rise," calls out the bailiff and we do, as Judge Banner enters the courtroom and takes his seat behind his desk. He opens a file and then looks to the bailiff. "Please send in the Jury," he requests. The bailiff knocks on the door and moments later the jurors slowly file into the courtroom and take their seats. Most have their heads down while the foreman looks decidedly unhappy. I fear the worst.

Judge Banner doesn't waste time. "Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a decision?" Grumbled "yes sirs," are heard and heads nod. Still, most keep their heads down, not making eye contact with the Judge, the prosecutor or me.

Trying to focus and get a grip on my nerves is consuming all my energy. Feeling light headed from lack of nourishment and sleep is making it hard to glean the juror's intent. "Will the foreman please rise?" A large man in his late 30s-early 40s stands. He looks almost hostile and I wonder what his feelings were and what his vote was. "Please give the written verdict to the bailiff." He does and the bailiff hands the paper to Judge Banner. He takes a moment, and he, too, looks none too happy with the verdict. Sam's hand comes up and rests on my shoulder, squeezing it in comfort.

The Judge looks back to the foreman. "Mr. Foreman, how does the jury find in the case of Edward Anthony Masen vs. the State of Texas, in the wrongful death of Lauren Mallory with regards to murder in the first degree?" Judge Banner sighs.

"Not guilty, your honor." For a brief moment, the foreman seems visibly relieved to be able to say these words as he looks directly at me. Sam is quiet and squeezes my shoulder while Rose whispers, "Yes." Gasps are immediately heard throughout the courtroom and people are starting to talk. Judge Banner bangs his gavel to quiet the room.

"On the charge of involuntary manslaughter, how does the jury find Mr. Edward Anthony Masen?" Judge Banner asks in a louder tone. Most of the jurors seem to be sinking in their seats and I know what their decision is without hearing the foreman speak the words.

"Guilty, your honor," Mr. Foreman gnashes out through his clenched teeth. He doesn't look at me, but I know instinctually that he felt I was not guilty. For this alone, I am grateful. Unfortunately, only a majority is needed for the verdict. The courtroom erupts behind me. It's surreal. I feel as if I'm not really there, but watching the commotion from above. Many are shouting my innocence, while others are yelling that I should be hanged. Sam and Rose are both telling me they will keep working on my appeal and not to lose hope. Although I acknowledge them, I'm detached from the proceedings.

The Judge has been banging his gavel for some time and eventually he regains control of his courtroom with the help of his bailiff and other officers present.

"It falls to me to hand out the fairest punishment. I believe you have led an easy life, Mr. Masen. So with this in mind, I believe your life sentence would be best served at hard labor. Alabama is in dire need of a greater workforce for their convict labor program and I think serving the needs of that State will suit you just fine." Gasps from both Sam and Rose fill my ears. I've never heard of convict labor.

"After all, you are used to solitude which you would receive in our prison system. The harshness of your punishment fits the nature of your crime," he states malignantly. "Due to the attention this case has received, I don't feel your punishment would be best served here in the great State of Texas. I fear our good citizens might feel justice has not been properly afforded Miss Mallory, as you yourself heard here in this courtroom moments ago. I must protect you, and deter our fine citizens from attempting good old fashioned justice. An eye for an eye, you know." He actually smiles at me.

Sam is seething and cursing under his breath. Rose is glaring at the judge. Both of them have their arms around me as if trying to protect me, but even in my numbness, I know my life has been derailed and it will never be the same.

My only ambition in life was to become a priest and offer myself as a living sacrifice in heart, body and soul to God, our Father, for the good of the Church and all those I would serve. Now my heart is shattered in a million pieces. I will never see this come to fruition. My body and head feel empty, cold and desolate. My soul, I fear, has lost its beacon. A light which used to shine brightly with so much hope and potential has been extinguished. It's a future I'll never have, because I know in this very instant, God deserted me on judgment day. It's with this belief, my soul implodes and I plummet into a black void.

**~ J *+* D ~**


	8. Chapter 8

**A huge thank you to Lilith and Ficfangirl. They make this story so much better. All errors are mine. Can't stop the nitpicking. **

**Thank you taking the time to read, review and PM me. Almost all of the characters are in place and then connections will be made. **

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**Every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies."**

**~ Jane Austen ~**

**Chapter 8**

**Up to and after Edward Masen's trial**

**Esme**

During the months leading up to the trial our life changed dramatically. Carlisle spent his time sending out letters of introductions to hospitals from California to Maine, Washington to Florida and all major cities in between. Many responded positively, but nothing could be cemented until the trial was over. I tried to continue my normal daily routines. But, once Carlisle's termination from the hospital and his determination to testify on behalf of Mr. Masen was known, everything took a turn for the worst.

Simple acts such as shopping at the grocers became a nightmare. Couples with whom we previously socialized snubbed me. One gentleman became so belligerent by Carlisle's audacity to defend a murderer that he actually confronted me. "What's wrong with Carlisle? He not only helps the infirm, but now he feels the need to help criminals? Is he trying for some form of sainthood? You'd better tell him to watch his back, is all I'm saying." The truth of the matter was, at least he was honest. He spoke his mind, while others spoke with actions.

My work with various charitable foundations soon came to an end. At first, I was merely ostracized. This I could handle as long as people were benefiting from my presence. But, when meetings were persistently interrupted by catty remarks and vicious slurs on my character and Carlisle's, it soon became apparent that nothing was to be gained from my continued support.

What had me at my wits end though, were the anonymous letters with death threats. Unbeknownst to Carlisle, I started carrying a small pistol in my handbag. I hid the letters from him knowing he would protect me first and foremost, to the detriment of Mr. Masen.

I had weekly meetings with Rose. Carlisle assumed I was still attending my charity meetings. Instead, I would present her with the new letters in the hopes she could ferret out the sender. She also informed me of Mr. Uley's request for permission from Judge Banner to view Mr. Masen's cassock for possible new evidence. A day later, a letter was received from the judge stating that the cassock was somehow misplaced. As soon as it was found, he would ensure Mr. Uley was given the opportunity to see it. Both she and Mr. Uley were furious. I didn't have the heart to tell Carlisle.

Two days before the trial a small box was left on our front porch. I was instantly suspicious. It didn't feel right. I picked it up and slowly lifted the lid only to slam it down again. Inside were two dead rats, which I immediately threw away in the rubbish can.

The morning Carlisle was set to testify, he found two black roses wrapped in newspaper sitting on the front porch. I walked out of the front door only to come to a standstill. I knew some Victorians considered it a symbol of death. From Carlisle's furious expression, I knew he understood the meaning as he glared at the offending flowers he held in his hand. His features soon changed to that of horror and his complexion turned ashen as he seemed to have worked out an answer to his own question. "How long?" he whispers. When I didn't answer him right away he became incredibly agitated as he spit out, "How long has this been going on, Esme?"

I close my eyes and clench my fists tightly as I try to keep my frustration and tears at bay. After all this time spent protecting him from the vile letters and personal threats, this had to happen right before his day in court. "How long, Esme?" he snaps again.

And even though I try to withhold the words I've kept inside for so long, it's just no use as they yearn to be set free. When I open my eyes, I glare at him and the words escape in a fit of anger, "How long has what been going on, Carlisle? The letters with death threats? The dead rats? The snubbing by our friends or the smear campaign? How long do you think it's been going on?" I retort, lashing out at him because I tried so hard to keep the scare tactics away from him and it was all for naught.

Carlisle's anxiety is slowly and visibly replaced with fear and sadness. "I didn't know," he whispers, speaking more to himself as my words settle in. Shaking his head, he looks lost as he asks, "Why would you keep this from me? I had a right to know."

"What would you have done, Carlisle? What would you have said? 'I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Masen, but I won't be testifying on your behalf. Your life is not near as important as my own or my own peace of mind.' Or would you have said, 'Esme, let's leave now. Let's run and let the ignorant fools with their threats win.' Really, Carlisle, tell me what you would have done." My sarcasm is riding high as I take in huge gulps of air, trying to calm down.

After a few moments, Carlisle shakes his head in defeat. "No, I wouldn't have done anything differently in regards to Mr. Masen." His eyes are misty when he lifts them to mine. "But, I could have been there for you, to help ease your troubles." In a rare bout of rage, he balls up the roses in the newspaper and throws them over the side of the porch railing. He walks over to me and wraps me in a tight embrace as he whispers in my ear, "Esme, my brave, strong, beautiful girl. My love, I should have known. Thank you, but don't _ever_ keep me in the dark again."

"Then you should know one more detail," I mumble into his chest. He pulls away slightly so he can look at me. "Mr. Masen's cassock has vanished and Mr. Uley and Rose can't use the button or material as evidence," I sniff.

Carlisle's eyes flash fire and then he pulls me back into his arms, this time for me to comfort him.

**~ J *+* D ~**

By the time Carlisle completed his testimony and was dismissed from the witness stand, I was seething. When he came and sat by me in the gallery, he took my hand and I could feel the tension shaking through his body. Both of us were ready to erupt at the prosecutor's callous disregard of his observations and conclusions. I know he's angry with the twisting of his testimony about Miss Mallory's last words. He's irritated at the hospital for their dismissal of his opinion and position. He's livid at himself for letting Mr. Masen down.

Once court recessed for the day we made our way out of the courthouse. People line the streets as they have for days since the trial began. However, today is different. Many yell at us. Some even throw rotted fruit and vegetables. Suddenly, we are surrounded by officers who shield us as we make our way to our vehicle. One insolent constable suggests, "You've done enough now to possibly allow a vile man his freedom. I won't be around next time to give you safe passage. I'll just let the crowd have a go at you." Then he and two others walk away laughing.

Two remain, while one speaks, "Not everyone agrees with him. Personally, I think Mr. Masen is being railroaded. Why? I have no clue. But I don't think he did it." Then he tips his hat and both walk away. It seems the city is divided.

**~ J *+* D ~**

Neither of us get any sleep, but we're determined that we won't let the crowd bully us into not appearing for the closing arguments. We need to show a united front. We're strong in our beliefs and the crowd be damned. We watch the jurors intently as we listen to both sides try to sway the jurors in their favor with their words. In my opinion, Mr. Uley and Rose presented a strong case. I'm pleased the jurors are taking the case seriously. I feel they are leaning toward the defense. Some even slightly smiled at Mr. Uley towards the end.

The last minute surprise of the Judge allowing a lesser charge has me confused. Carlisle immediately stiffens in his seat. I watch Mr. Uley's face change from satisfied to incredulous disbelief. Rose looks hostile, with her brow furrowed as if wondering if the judge can do this. Apparently, he can, seems to be Mr. Uley's silent answer. The jurors' self-assured attitude has diminished. Once again the court is recessed, this time to wait for the jury's verdict.

We arrive at the courthouse one last time. Sleep again eluded us, but it wasn't in fear of the crowds. It was from the anxiety of awaiting Mr. Masen's fate. Carlisle explained to me the meaning of the addendum to the original charges. Rage once again ran rampant through both of us. I have never believed in a man's innocence as much as I believed in that of Mr. Edward Masen. The jury looked dejected and miserable when they re-entered the courtroom. Dread coiled in my stomach. Part of the tension was released when he was found not guilty of first degree murder. I held my breath when the second charge was read. When the verdict was revealed, tears sprang to my eyes as I quietly wept for the young priest. But, when the judge spoke of sending him to Alabama as part of the convict lease program my spine stiffened and I felt the fury consuming me again. I prayed for him, and silently vowed, then and there, that if I ever got a chance to help that young man, I would.

When Carlisle and I leave the courtroom, the crowd is jubilant. I vaguely hear the noise and the threats. Once we return home, we are still in shock and remain silent, lost in our own thoughts.

Finally, I break the silence. "Carlisle, I don't know why, but I think for right now, I'd really like to go home to the Platt Plantation. I know you have offers out West, but I would really just like to be back in Alabama."

"Well, I think I do know why you want to go there. It's probably for the same reasons I want to also. We need to leave this place. We'll only pack what we need for the time being," he murmurs. Then his mood changes lightning quick, as he smiles. "Let's go. Maybe Rose and Mr. Uley will find a way to free him and he'll need a place to recover from this ordeal away from here. We'll tell Rose where the plantation is located and she can even stay there if or when she comes to visit with Mr. Masen." Then he reaches for my hand, kisses it gently and pulls me into his warm, comforting embrace.

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**Remember upon the conduct of each depends the fate of all."**

**~ Alexander the Great ~**

**After the trial of Edward Masen**

**Sam**

I'm sitting alone in the empty courtroom trying to come to terms with the outcome of today's debacle. I was outraged yesterday when Banner added the lesser charge for the jury to consider. Banner and I had always had a good working relationship. Granted, I had never tried a murder case before, but I know deep in my soul, Edward Masen would have been set free. I'm positive of it. There wasn't enough evidence to convict him of murder. Evidence. I snort into the silent room and it echoes off the walls. It's very convenient how his cassock vanished. I know we would not have found a match to the material or button. Even without confirming the lack of damage to the lost article of clothing, this case was still won.

What really bothers me is Banner's failure to tell us of the lesser charge prior to closing arguments. I could have worked it in as part of my speech. But, I wasn't given the opportunity. Last night I reviewed case after case where a judge took this action. In those cases, it didn't really change the outcome of the case. It just lightened the sentence. This was different. This was a murder case where it mattered if an innocent man received the death sentence or if he was set free. It was a black and white case. It was crystal clear until Judge Banner muddied it himself.

Today, when the verdict was read, I knew the outcome before I heard it and I was livid. The body language of the jurors was not subtle. Most were uncomfortable and I can understand why. It's not just the idea of a priest accused of a murder. It was as if Judge Banner himself had decided to play God with this young man's life, which made them uncomfortable. He knew the jury wouldn't convict on the more severe charge. He steam rolled them into making the decision he desired. But why? What does he gain?

I mentally list the multiple reasons which instantly come to mind. One, Banner is up for re-election. Maybe he feels it will give him leverage if he puts away a murderer, a priest no less, showing his constituents he means business. Proving the point of no one being above the law. Two, Banner was paid off or owed a favor to someone. But here again, who would pay him off or who would he be protecting? Three, he was well informed about the need for inmates in Alabama. I know for a fact that judges earn a 'finder's fee' from the state for sending inmates their way. How much could he have received to warrant him sending an innocent man to jail? What is his price?

What bothers me the most, were the jurors. Only one seemed upset about not finding Mr. Masen guilty of first degree murder, but was satisfied with the lesser conviction. Rose had pointed him out to me. She told me he nodded to Banner upon entry into the courtroom. Had he informed Banner the jury wouldn't convict on the greater charge? If so, was Banner protecting him or did Banner put him in the jury box so he would know which way the jury was leaning and could take the appropriate action to get a guilty verdict to a charge which would lead to a prison sentence? We need to get his name and investigate his possible connections to the judge.

Edward was exhausted when he entered the courtroom. When he passed out after hearing his fate, I wanted to leap across the desk and pummel Banner as he laughed out loud at Edward's unconscious form sprawled on the table.

I remember glancing over at Rose who was trying to offer comfort to Edward when he was revived. She promised him we wouldn't give up on his case and would appeal his sentence as he was being led back to his jail cell. It's a promise I completely agree with. She left, disgusted with Banner and needing to reorganize her thoughts. I will lay odds she is already trying to figure out who the juror was. She is tenacious and won't let this rest.

I silently vow to the empty walls of the courtroom, we will figure out who the master manipulator is. Banner be warned, you will see your own judgment day.

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**I love the name of honor, more than I fear death."**

**~ Julius Caesar ~**

**After the trial of Edward Masen**

**Charlie**

I never thought I would admit it to myself, but the simple truth is, I've become disillusioned. The corruption I've witnessed in the past seventeen years on the force was surpassed today. My desire to right wrongs and keep the peace was nothing more than a fanciful dream.

When I first enlisted, I assumed there would be moments when I would have to face the possibility of losing my life. I wasn't naïve enough to think there wouldn't come a time when I would be facing the wrong side of a gun or getting caught in the cross fire of a shootout. In my youth induced 'I'm immortal' haze, I may have even welcomed it. If you stood on the side of right and might, no harm would come to you.

I knew life and death situations came with the territory. It was a given. The first eight years were spent settling disputes in every imaginable situation. Since officers didn't earn a salary, we were paid by services rendered. The number of citations issued. The number of papers served. The number of arrests made for everything from disturbing the peace to capturing those with bench warrants. It wasn't a well-paying job by any stretch of the imagination. However, some rewards are priceless. The joy received from a little girl's hug after her kitten is rescued, from reuniting a lost child with his or her parents, to saving a life. It's those moments which made wearing a badge worth the effort and low pay.

What I never expected was my inauguration into the seamier side of law enforcement. This happened when I was partnered with Felix. Even thinking his name sets my teeth on edge. His territory was on the outskirts of Houston in the low rent district. He had recently lost his partner when a habitual thug decided it would be interesting to watch an officer dance to the bullets of his gun – aimed at his feet. Until he took a potshot at the officer's head when the thug tired of the entertainment. At least, this was what was written in Felix's report after he shot the thug.

Felix had been on the force for fifteen years, so who was I to question the validity of his words? It wasn't until I had been working the streets with him for nine months that I started to see things differently. It had started easily enough. Felix would go into various shops, bars and such, asking me to wait outside while he went in to ensure all was well. He would say that two officers entering a business tends to make the customers nervous. Again, I can't believe how naïve I was.

One particular evening close to midnight, a man came racing out of a bar with blood on his face. He took one look at me in uniform and sped away even faster. My knee jerk reaction was to chase him down the street, which I did for two blocks until he cut in between two apartment buildings. He heaved himself over a fence and landed badly on an ankle. I was over the fence and straddling his body within seconds.

"Please, please don't hurt me. I promise, I'll have the money tomorrow. You don't need to harm my family. I beg you. Please, don't hurt my family," he mumbled through his swollen lips, fear evident in his eyes. Momentarily stunned, I then hear the sound of pounding footsteps nearing from the other side of the fence. The man's terror heightens tenfold and he begins to speak again. I cover his mouth with one hand and lift my other in a sign to stay quiet. The footsteps follow along the fence line and, at one point, I can see Felix's head over the top searching in the distance for someone. Luckily, we can't be seen up against the fence in the shadows.

When I'm sure Felix has left the area, I release my hand from the man's mouth. "Who do you owe money to?" I sharply whisper, not sure if Felix was looking for me or this man.

"Constable Batista. Each month he comes into my bar and I pay him $200 for keeping my place safe," he murmurs as he looks at me like I'm crazy and don't already know this.

"Safe? Safe from what?" I question, because he was just not making sense.

"Safe from him," he huffs. Now he looks at me with contempt. "If I don't pay him, he will come in and bust up my place. He's done it before when I've been late. But, he's never threatened my family before. Tonight, I told him to go ahead and bust up the place. I don't have the funds right now. I have to feed my wife and kids," he chokes up when he speaks of them. "He told me he would give me a little taste of what he would do to my family." He points to his battered face.

I'm at a loss. I think back to the many months I've been paired with Felix and our routine during that time. Our routine has been to make our way through various establishments on different days or nights. I always noticed how people were deferential to him, but I chalked it up to being appreciative of him keeping the neighborhood free of crime.

I'm still sitting on his chest when he mumbles, "I can't breathe." I immediately lift myself off him and shift to lean against the fence.

"Does he do this to other shop keepers?" It's unfathomable to me that an officer of the law could do this.

The man looks at me and snorts, then he quickly lowers his eyes in apology. He nods his head. "Yeah, every business owner I know on this side of town pays him off."

My mind is chaotic as I remember all the places he goes to each day. He visits at least three establishments a day while I stay outside. If he's extorting money from each of them, then he is raking in the dough. I start doing the math. Fifteen in one week. That's sixty potential businesses he's extorting money from each month. If all are paying $200 for "safe keeping," that's $12,000 a month. Close to $150,000 a year. I'm stunned by the racket he has going for himself. Then my mind deviates and I wonder what he'd do if he found out I knew. I remember his last partner was killed by a street thug, but did it really happen that way?

The man still hasn't changed his prone position, as he seems to be watching my features not knowing what he might be in for next. He grabs his courage and states, "You didn't know, did you?" I can only shake my head, no. He's quiet for a few more moments, "Are you going to tell him I told you?" Fear again rearing its ugly head in his features.

"No. No, I'm not. I'll tell him I saw you run, but you were over the fence and I couldn't find you," I promise. Then I go for broke and ask the question I'm not sure I want to know the answer to, "Can you tell me, do you know what happened to his last partner?"

"Word on the street is, Batista hired a homeless man to do the job. The man bragged how he received $100 up front and would soon be collecting $900 more. Then his partner, Aro, was killed and so was the homeless man. Anyone could have told him that Batista wouldn't part easily with his money. He holds it too close to his chest," he answers, as he finally sits up. His words ring true. My mind is spinning in all directions. What do I do? I can't confront Felix. I might end up like Aro. How did an officer of the law become so corrupt? Was it wide spread and I never realized it? The man moves again and I focus on him. What will happen to him and his family? He's already tried to run. Does Felix know where he lives? My eyes widen at the thought.

"What's your name? Does Felix, I mean Constable Batista, know where you live? How long did he give you to pay him?" My questions fly out of my mouth faster than bullets from my six shooter.

"The name's Liam. I have until tomorrow to pay him. He'll be back at the bar early in the evening. If I'm not there, he will come to my house. He knows where we all live. That's part of his demands to keep us on the up and up," he sighs. "I don't have the money." I can hear the fear in his voice.

"My name's Charlie Swan. You can be assured I won't tell him what you've told me. But, if you don't have the money, you need to get out of here tonight. I know he has other friends on the force and there's no telling if they might be into the same racket. You need to get home, pack only what you can carry and get out of town, quickly," I suggest, as I try to come up with a plausible excuse why I've been missing for so long.

"We don't have anywhere to go. I have very little money stashed away at home. I could rent a motel for maybe a week and then what? Live out of my truck with my family!" He's becoming more distraught by the minute.

"Calm down. I have a house on the coast in a small fishing village. It's large enough for a small family. You can stay there. I only go down there once every couple of months or so to make sure all is right," I offer. What I don't tell him is that I haven't the heart to sell the place. It's still decorated the way Renee left it. I still keep hoping that someday a miracle will occur and somehow I'll see her there again, happy like she was in the early days of our marriage. My heart aches when I think of her and Bella. Here in Houston, I live in a studio apartment. I only need a place to sleep and bathe. The worst part is, for the first time, I feel as if I should never have taken this job.

I end up giving Liam the directions to the beach house and tell him where a key is hidden. As I watch him limp away, his actions give me an idea. I hoist myself back up and over the fence and purposely sprain my ankle. I eventually limp my way back to Liam's bar to find a anxious Felix pacing the sidewalk.

When he spots me, he shouts, "What the hell happened to you. I've been waiting here for half an hour and was about ready to send out a search party."

As I get closer, my limp almost feels natural. "Some guy ran out of the bar like the hounds of hell were after him. I yelled for him to stop, but he kept going. I chased him down about four blocks and then over a fence. I landed wrong and it took me a while to go around the fence to get back here," I spoke as if I was tired and in a bit of pain while exaggerating how far I actually ran. "Not my finest moment." I tried to laugh it off, to convince him it was no big deal.

"So, you never caught the guy." Felix has an edge to his voice.

"No, as soon as I landed, I knew he won the race." I give a self-deprecating shrug. "Do you know who he was?"

"Just some clown trying to start a brawl. He got hit a few times and then high tailed it out of here." Felix grins, enjoying himself. I laugh with him as if it's a great joke.

"I think it's time I call it a night. I need to rest my ankle. You okay here by yourself or are you heading in, too?" Our shift is almost over, so I hope his little protection scheme is done for the night.

He smiles as he agrees it's time to call it a day. We return to the station and he offers to drive me home. I decline as politely as possible. I want to have my own vehicle nearby. Even though I don't think he can see me, I continue my charade of gritting my teeth in pain as I shift gears and even moan a few times as I'm driving. He's following behind me for a few blocks until he finally turns right. The hairs on the back of my neck are still standing on end. I'm not sure he believed me, so when I finally arrive at my studio, I make a big production of limping harder and cussing a bit as I slowly make my way up the stairs.

I hear footsteps down below as I'm midway up. I know he's here watching from the shadows. I feel it. I arrive at my door and limp my way in, shutting the door and move to the lamp. Turning it on, I make my way over to sit on my bed, slowly moving my ankle up and pulling a pillow over to prop it up. My window has been open all day and eventually I hear footsteps walking away and an automobile engine start. I still don't move. Felix is a smart man. Whether he believed my story or not, I was not taking any chances. Now I need to figure out what to do.

Eventually, I told a trusted superior my story. An undercover operation was set in motion and it took ten months to bring him down. I was still his partner during that time so none of the business owners could finger me as the one who helped bring him to justice. However, Felix tried to pin the whole operation on me, until it was learned he had been working these people over for five years. They raided his home and found one bedroom filled with nothing but safes. Once they were all opened, over half a million dollars was tallied. The shop owners demanded restitution and the funds were divvied up. A few were brave enough to hire a lawyer and tried to sue for more. I didn't pay attention to how that played out.

Liam was the only victim who knew what I did. A more appreciative man, I have never met. He and his family were able to return to their home safely. His bar had been trashed by Felix so it took time for him to repair the damage. He asked me to attend his reopening and I did. He led me to a booth and set down a mug of ale. I picked it up, ready to toast his good fortune, when I noticed the initials CS were inscribed on the glass. I looked up at Liam and he grinned. "That's your glass, Charlie. You can leave it here or take it with you. But as long as my family owns this place, it will always be filled for free. It's the least we can do for what you gave back to us. Thank you."

**~ J *+* D ~**

These years after Felix's conviction opened my eyes as never before. Gone was the allure I had initially held for the job. In its stead, the fascination was replaced with disgust and intolerance for the corruption which ran rampant throughout the force. I've seen firsthand a man wearing a badge use unnecessary force when arresting a felon, for the sheer pleasure of watching him suffer. I've seen them use prostitutes for their personal gratification without payment. But this last week, when I witnessed an innocent man, a young priest no less, sent to prison was the straw that broke the camel's back.

One of the conditions required of those on the force is the need to sit on a jury at least twice a year. The premise is for officers to fully understand the legal process to completion. It also reminds us of the need to be diligent in getting the information correct the first time. I've always enjoyed my time in the jury box. Watching the two opposing lawyers spar with each other using words instead of boxing gloves. Most times, both sides give compelling reasons why their client was or wasn't at fault or owed compensation for whatever necessitated a trial in the first place.

When my time rolled around for box duty, I learned it was for the trial in the death of Miss Mallory. I have to admit from the onset, guilty was weighing heavily in my mind. The prosecution was presenting a good case against Mr. Masen. Evidence was presented and the time line was acceptable for the crime in question.

When the time came for Mr. Masen to take the stand, my first impression was of an articulate and well-mannered man. As his version of the events unfolded, he reminded me of the first time I actually listened to Liam's account of Felix's deeds. There was an inherent honesty in his words. The compassion he felt towards Miss Mallory was remarkable. He never wavered from his tale under cross examination. Even when confronted with the knowledge that the hangman's noose was waiting to claim his life, he never recanted.

When Dr. Cullen took the stand, we learned that his belief in Mr. Masen's innocence was confirmed by Miss Mallory's last words. We hear his view of Constable Apep's repeated accusations against Mr. Masen and how his assertions poisoned the staff's opinions. Most telling was his admission that he lost his position at the hospital because of his unwillingness to accept Constable Apep's professional assessment. It was his firm commitment to the view that Mr. Masen was a victim of circumstance that caused me to agree that an innocent man was fighting for his life. Why Constable Apep was so insistent Mr. Masen was the perpetrator of the deed was beyond me. At this point, I knew Mr. Masen would be set free and he would continue to do God's work and serve his community of parishioners.

When court recessed for the day, we jurors were sent to a separate room. We had a soft vote as to the guilt or innocence of Mr. Masen with 10 out of 12 voting not guilty. A member of the jury, Eric Yorkie, started complaining about how yellow livered we were. "What, do you fear the wrath of God? Do you think because he is a priest, he can do no wrong? You all are like a bunch of sheep!"

"Were you in the same court room as me?" I retorted. "That young man is no more a criminal then a newborn baby. The prosecution has only circumstantial evidence with no witnesses. It would be the same as saying no one should attempt to help someone in distress because you will find yourself with a noose around your neck," I argue, using the simplest illustration to prove my point.

"I'm not saying not to help someone in need. I'm saying here is a priest who has the backing of the church to say he never went to the refectory. What if he did go to the refectory, took the knife when he saw the young lady by the alley, lured her into it, stabbed her, felt remorse and forgot about the knife that was found by her body?" He sneers as he continues, "Men of the cloth are taught to hide their emotions. They hear confessions and absolve sins every day. A few hail Marys' and all is forgiven. If I were a priest and did the deed, I'd feel confident taking the stand and lying my ass off."

I can feel the mood in the room changing. The other jurors are listening to him. "For one, we are _only_ supposed to consider the evidence presented to us. For another, your comments pertain to the beliefs of the church and its community. They are not on trial. I've been in law enforcement for seventeen years and have been in the jury box over thirty times. I know people and I understand evidence. Mr. Masen is not a criminal. He doesn't need to be absolved for this sin, as you put it." I try to sway the jurors back to the only reasonable outcome. Maybe it's wrong to play the heavy, but Mr. Masen deserves his freedom.

"You really don't know much about the Catholic Church do you. They are the richest by far and have a long history of violence and torture," he smirks. "Go ahead and believe what you will. I know he did the deed and they are banking on trusting fools like you to believe they can do no wrong." Then he got up and walked out of the room. I can only stare at the other jurors. Many have scowls for his distrust of the church and some are confused and weighing his words.

"This case is not about the church. It's about a young man accused of a crime with only inferred evidence. The man we saw take the stand in his own defense is not a criminal hiding behind a cloak," I sigh. "This is my opinion from years of experience in dealing with truly evil people. It's up to you to decide what you believe." I rise from my chair and follow Yorkie out of the room.

**~ J *+* D ~**

After the closing arguments were heard, I was convinced the rest of the jurors were back on board to issuing a not guilty verdict. Then we were completely blindsided when the judge issued a lesser sentence to be considered. I've never heard of such a thing. My gaze immediately lands on Yorkie who is trying to stifle a grin. He wasn't doing a very good job. Then I glance at the other jurors who are completely dumbfounded.

We are ordered to the deliberation room, where I'm elected foreman and immediately questions fly. It doesn't take Yorkie long to explain the additional sentence. It's as if he's been tutored to give the appropriate answers. He starts in again about the church and its history.

I don't know anything about the church's past, but I do know about corruption in law enforcement. I truly believed it stopped with those who wore the badge and the few odd lawyers. Now I'm learning it also infects judges. Yorkie had to have told the judge how the vote was looking. Why is the judge out to imprison this young man? What does he gain? What does Yorkie gain?

I stay quiet through the long evening unless I'm asked a direct question. I listen to all of the conversations, opinions and arguments. The judge created a maelstrom within this room. No one sleeps. The stress from the potential guilt of punishing a priest is taking its toll. The death sentence is off the table. Many are riding the fence though, with the lesser charge. Yorkie hammers on about wolves in sheep's clothing, the church and an eye for an eye. Chairs are swapped around the table, one side for guilty and the other side for not, as the sun announces the dawn.

Finally, I'm asked once again my view. "It's not changed. I've listened to each and every one of you. Whether it holds weight or not, I've seen the darker side of man. I know when someone has committed a crime. I wouldn't have lasted all these years if I didn't know my job and do it well. I've witnessed the worst and the best in this town. Mr. Masen is innocent and I disagree with the additional charge being given so late in the trial. In my opinion, it's wrong. Do what you will with it." I close my eyes while rubbing my hands across my face. I can only hope I convinced some of them to my side of the fence.

"I think I should remind you all that Apep is also in law enforcement. He was at the scene of the crime and he believes Mr. Masen is guilty." Yorkie points out. I want to reach across the table and knock his lights out. He's a fast talker, I'll give him that. "I think it's time we cast our votes again for the lesser charge," Yorkie sighs. Even his voice sounds weary. Finally!

After I receive everyone's vote, I sort them into two piles. This time, there is a majority. I look around the table. Everyone is exhausted and just wants to go home. "Which verdict is the majority?" Yorkie demands.

I level my eyes on his as I say one word, "Guilty."

"Yes! I'm happy to see most of you have the good sense to see some justice served," Yorkie smirks. I know the insult was directed at me alone. He turns and knocks on the door to let the bailiff know we reached a decision.

**~ J *+* D ~**

After my jury duty was served, I went straight to the station house and told my superior I needed a leave of absence. I was emotionally and physically drained. I had never felt such animosity for our legal system as I did right now. I was ashamed to call myself an officer of the law.

I went to my apartment, packed my clothes and headed out to the beach house. Disheartened by all I had witnessed, I sat and watched the waves lap against the shore for hours, trying to pull my mind away from the look of anguish on Mr. Masen's face. I feel righteous indignation about Judge Banner's relief and his smug attitude. I try not to think about Apep's boasts to the press of how he knew the jury would come through. How proud he was to help Miss Mallory rest in peace by ensuring a guilty verdict against her murderer.

Clearing my thoughts, I gaze at the blue waters and watch the fishing boats bob up and down. I remember the thrill I used to experience when I would bring in a large haul onto the ship. I let my mind wonder to Renee. I should have listened to her. I should have honored her wishes and put her and Bella first. That was in our wedding vows. I was so cock sure she would follow me anywhere. And I'm sure she would have in any other profession, but law enforcement. I knew her feelings and I disregarded them. And, by doing so, I disregarded her. I miss the fishing, but more importantly, I miss her and Bella.

I kept hoping against hope she would come back. After receiving the divorce papers, I was shattered. It was that day I knew it was a lost cause and put every effort into being the best I could be for the job. For no other reason than to prove her wrong.

After the Felix debacle and my first taste of bitterness for my occupation, I hired a private investigator to look for them. He found them and I was informed of their location. I was told Renee was married to a lawyer. Bella was eleven and she was safe and happy. Truly, it was the most I could wish for, so I stayed away to let them live in peace. The knowledge of Renee married to another man cut deep into my soul. I lost the right to have a say in her choices when I signed onto the force and the lines on the divorce agreement. I never asked the private investigator to look for them again.

My little Bella isn't so little anymore. She's nineteen now, going on twenty. I bemoan the loss of all the years watching her grow into the beautiful young woman I know she must be.

The more I think about the two of them the greater the need to see them. Maybe Renee wouldn't have anything to do with me, but I could at least apologize to Bella for never being around and watching her grow. Maybe she'll allow me into a little part of her world.

My spirits rise with this new found conviction, I want to see my daughter and possibly Renee. I get up, walk inside and over to my desk. I know exactly which drawer the envelope is locked up in. I've opened it and read the words each time I've come here over the last eight years. I wonder if they still live at the same address. Only one way to find out. I start making plans to visit Florida.

**~ J *+* D ~**


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks as always to the awesome pre-reader Lilith and the fabulous beta Ficfangirl. You both make this story better. Again, any errors are my own. As promised to all the PMer's this chapter has Edward in it. Thank you for reading, reviewing and PMing. I really appreciate it. **

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**As long as people believe in absurdities they will continue to commit atrocities."**

**~ Voltaire ~**

**Chapter 9**

**From the explosion of the still to present**

**Peter**

Charlotte and I were running toward daylight when the explosion rocked the tunnel. We were flung to the ground and covered our heads as dust and debris flew everywhere. After 30 seconds, it became eerily calm. We'd just gotten back on our feet when we first heard and then saw a giant fireball fast approaching from the tunnel behind us. I grabbed Charlotte's hand and we ran for our very lives. Lady luck was with us when we reached the exit and saw the flames had abated, but not the smoke. It came billowing out like an industrial sized chimney.

Half blinded by the dense smoke and covered in dirt and ash, we found the truck hidden in the brush. While coughing up our lungs, we cleared the brush and were able to confirm Jasper had indeed loaded his personal belongings in it, before venturing up to the still. Jasper was undeniably the smartest man I have ever met. He instinctively knew something was going down and he was right. Now, I could only hope the explosion covered his escape.

"Damn you, Maria." I mumble, as I start the truck, then run and hop into the cab. I put it in gear and step down hard on the accelerator. My mind is still on Maria. Jasper knew she was behind all this. How much of this had to do with Charlotte and me I wondered, and chuckled at the thought. Probably equal parts if I knew her at all. Charlotte was still coughing and spitting dirt and dust out the window as we made our way across the creek and into the next county.

The next phase of Jasper's plan was for us to stop and wait for him about 70 miles away at a little café. If he didn't show up within two hours after we got there, then we were to high tail it out of there to hopefully meet up at the Whitlock Plantation nestled in southern Alabama. Jasper had left detailed instructions as to the location and a key for entry.

After an hour of driving, we stopped by a stream that ran behind a grove of trees to wash most of the grime from our hair and bodies. Charlotte has been holding back tears. I know her greatest fear was realized with the explosion of the still, even though she knew it was planned. She's also worried about Jasper, same as me, and we take a moment to comfort each other. Then we take a few minutes to reassure and love each other as only Charlotte and I can. Once Charlotte and I re-established our relationship, we put on a fresh change of clothes and work together wiping down the seats, resituating our bags and Jasper's trunk in the back, and then tie a tarp over the top for the long drive. In all, it takes us almost four hours to get to the café.

At least all the driving blew off layers of dust and ash that had accumulated on the truck. Not that it looked new mind you, just better. We sit anxiously waiting for Jasper. We ordered a meal when the server got irritated with us for taking up space and only drinking water or coffee. Every time a vehicle came into the parking lot or someone entered the café, we kept expecting to see Jasper making a grand entrance. When two hours passed, we defied Jasper's orders and waited another hour. When it came and went, we knew we had to leave. Charlotte made a last minute excuse to use the ladies room. I'm not sure if it was to wash her face again, this time from the tears that coursed down it, or if it was her way of adding a few more precious minutes of wait time. When she peeked out the door and surveyed the room, I had my answer.

We didn't speak much on the three-day trip. We both refused to believe the worst from the explosion, and were still hopeful we'd see Jasper soon. We took our time as ordered by Jasper. "No need to draw attention to yourselves from the law," Jasper had chuckled. I wish I was laughing now, but I knew in my gut Jasper didn't get a chance to run. I wondered how bad the explosion was topside. Was he injured, in a hospital? Arrested and in jail? Had all of the above occurred?

I decided I would give us another time limit. If we didn't hear from him after two weeks, then I was going to find out what was going on, or hopefully, find him. Either way, I just needed to know he was still alive. When we're about 25 miles out from our final destination, we stop in Mobile for supplies. Charlotte heads into a family owned grocery store for a week's worth of goods. We're sure there won't be any food stocked, since Jasper hasn't been home in over a year. I stay with the truck. There is too much cash to just leave our bags unattended without a clear view like we had in the café.

Half an hour later, I see her coming out of the store with her arms loaded. As I walk towards her, I notice two men following her out, enjoying the view of her gracefully swaying hips. I grin widely, because I know she's all mine. Just to prove my point, I meet her halfway and lift the sacks from her arms and then kiss her deeply in broad daylight, smack dab between the truck and grocer for all to see. When I release her lips, she smiles up at me, quietly laughing to herself, knowing I staked my claim once again. She knows me too well and, luckily for me, she enjoys being claimed.

An hour later we arrive at the plantation. The house is larger than I expected. The outside looks rough, but inside it feels as if you've stepped back in time. The comfort it affords is welcoming even with the dust cloths covering most of the furniture. I knew Jasper's mom died of cancer and his father died of a heart attack, leaving their only child to run the plantation. I also knew this place was Jasper's pride and joy. Now if I only knew what was happening with Jasper…

**~ J *+* D ~**

We've made ourselves at home here at Whitlock Manor, as I've come to call it. Charlotte enjoyed exploring and cleaning the house. She figures we're here for the long haul so we might as well make it livable. Since I'm not particularly keen on cleaning, I've enjoyed escaping the manor and walking Whitlock's Wasteland, also known as the property. It has so much potential just waiting to be revived to its former glory.

Time has slowly crept by and still there has been no word from Jasper. It's been thirteen days since I last saw him and that's long enough to commence my next plan of action. I contact an acquaintance who had a run in with Maria. He was Maria's original white lightning supplier until she decided to make her own. Demetri didn't mind her cutting him out of her business. All's fair in business when it comes to making the all mighty dollar, was his philosophy.

However, he did take exception to her ratting out the location of his still to the local authorities. Luckily, I had tipped him off when I overheard her conversation with some stool pigeon. He immediately went to investigate, sneaking up a back trail and finding the authorities already there. He could only watch as his still was shattered to pieces, and his cabin destroyed. What really got his goat was they found his stash of cash and divided it up amongst themselves. He couldn't do a thing about it since he needed to stay hidden or face arrest. His impotent rage simmers to this day.

I know I can trust Demetri. I believe he could help find out if Jasper was injured, dead or arrested. He could also help if I decide to go after Maria. Basically, what was done to him was done to us, except it was Maria's own still and she wanted us either arrested or removed from the earth, permanently. I know, given my sad tale, I can enlist his help to find Jasper. I don't want him to know where we are and to ensure that he doesn't, I drive six hours into Mississippi to mail my letter, with the return address marked general delivery.

**~ J *+* D ~**

On my sixth weekly drive to Mississippi, I finally get a response from Demetri.

_Dear Peter,_

_Sorry it's taken so long to get back to you__,__ but I had to make sure I had all the details correct. The good news is - Jasper is alive and well. The bad news is - he was arrested and tried for the possession of moonshine and sentenced to five years. Since he had no money to pay the court fines he was shipped to a prison near Birmingham, Alabama, to work off his debt. _

_I wish I had heard from you sooner. I would have tried to get him out__,__ or at the very least visited him. I learned of his fate from one of Maria's regulars who is seeing her cook. I spoke with Nettie on the sly. She said Maria was overjoyed that Jasper was caught red handed, but pissed that you and Charlotte seemed to have vanished into thin air. She doesn't wish you well. According to Nettie__,__ Maria said, and I quote, "I hope the fire scarred them for life and they die an agonizing death." Nettie is not of the same opinion. She says, "All three of them showed nothing but kindness to me."_

_She went on to say, "Maria had dolled herself up and attempted to visit Jasper in jail. On her way out she petulantly mumbled, 'Let him see what he chose to ignore. I can't wait to tell him it was me behind this.'" Then Nettie laughed while saying, "Maria came home fuming. I guess Jasper refused to see her. She was so livid after all her earlier gloating, she threw lamps across the room, shattered her crystal and broke nearly every piece of fine china she owned." But what she said next I thought was priceless. "When Maria's housekeeper saw the destruction__,__ she quit. It took her two weeks and four times the money to hire someone who would clean up the mess. But, she did learn to always wear shoes until the new housekeeper was found."_

_According to Nettie, Marie has been keeping company, off and on, with one man. So far his name has not been mentioned. She also built a new still not far from where the old one used to be. Jared is in charge of keeping it going. After he heard about what happened to the three of you, I will guarantee you, he won't be crossing her unless he has a three day lead. I will keep an eye on Maria and if there is anything more I can do, let me know and it will be done. _

_Your friend,_

_Demetri_

While I laughed about Maria's hissy fit, I wasn't happy to know Jasper was doing time. At least he was closer to us than in New Orleans. Now, I just have to figure out where exactly he is and if there's a way to see him. Find out what he wants me to do. Hire another lawyer. See if I can pay his fine. Hell, break him out if I have to. Whatever it is, it will be done.

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment."**

**~ Buddha ~**

**After leaving the train to present**

**Emmett**

It's been two months since we arrived in Alabama. During the first week here, we stayed in various hotels around the city just getting a feel for the area. Seth's first order of business was to find transportation. He knew how to bargain and found two trucks and one touring car or sedan, all in good working order and in better condition than the two we sold in Florida. According to Seth, the salt water eats away at the metal. Here, we are land locked and drier. The nicest part was the vehicles are cheaper here so, in all actuality, the sedan was basically free.

Once we had the transportation situation in hand, Alice insisted she be driven to the mortuary to see if the job was still available. I guess there's not much interest in attending to the dead and Alice was the only one to respond to the advertisement, even though it ran for three weeks. She came out squealing in delight when she was hired and was expected to start in two days.

This led us hunting for houses to rent. Bella's only request was that none of us work in the town we lived in. She figured she could be friendly with people as long as they didn't see her on her home turf. Not knowing the neighbors gave her a strange sense of security. Alice didn't want to drive herself to and from work. This is because Alice doesn't want to sit on pillows in order to see over the dashboard or tie on the pieces of wood Seth carved for her feet to be able to reach the pedals to drive. Can't blame her, but it sure is fun teasing her about it.

We settle for a four-bedroom house located on the outskirts of the City of Bessemer. Alice liked the small town, quiet feel. Bella liked the fact it had five different railway lines conveniently located close by, plus our closest neighbor was a half-mile away. Seth really didn't care either way as long as he had his own room. I liked knowing I was less than an hour's drive away from my job should any emergency arise.

Seth easily got a job working as a master mechanic for one of the best shops in eastern Birmingham. Because he was so young, however, the owner tested his knowledge and skills by having him take apart an engine and put it back together. Seth laughed when he told us it was the owner's truck engine and he had it running better than the owner did. Needless to say, the owner was thrilled with his new employee.

I was accepted as a new trainee guard for a prison outside of Birmingham. It wasn't quite the exciting job I expected it to be. My two weeks of training had basically been in the use of weapons, crowd control and learning to properly disarm or take down inmates. I'm in charge of shackling and driving cages to various jobsites. My shifts were four days around the clock and then two days off in rotation. This way, every guard had a weekend off at least once a month.

I'm having a tough time dealing with the working conditions of the inmates and the way they're treated. Many are humiliated and beaten for no reason. Then there are those who shouldn't be working because their health is so poor. It's disconcerting to realize men, meaning some guards, could be so cruel. I made a silent vow to myself after my first shift was completed. I will never treat another human being in any way that I wouldn't want to be treated myself.

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**Before Judgment Day, I knew the diligence of hard work – After Judgment Day, I find sloth a new virtue"**

**~ Preacher Man ~**

**Preacher Man**

I close my eyes and blow out a deep breathe having just been informed that we are entering the prison gates. In a few minutes time, I will be inside my new place of residence. Days ago, Father Michael visited me one last time before I was led out of the cell to the waiting wagon. It was a strange and uncomfortable meeting. He wouldn't look me in the eye as he shuffled from side to side in my cell. He would start to speak, but then he would shake his head and no words issued forth. He finally gave up and handed me my Bible and rosary while mumbling, "I hope it will bring you solace."

He turned and banged on the cell door and yelled for the guard to let him out. I can only imagine how he, too, now sees me as a disgrace to the church. I looked at the Bible and rosary in my hands and it felt as if my fingers and palms were scorched. I know it's just my state of mind, but it's as if I can feel the fiery flames of hell licking at my palms.

Once inside the wagon, I placed the rosary between the well-worn pages and set the Bible down on the seat next to me. I never touch either of them again. Not one word was read. Not one prayer was spoken verbally or mentally. For once, I had no desire to pray. I left them where they lay on the wagon bench. For the first time since I was a child, I didn't feel it calling to me. God had truly abandoned me in my darkest hour. He knew I was innocent and turned his back. Well, now, so have I.

**~ J *+* D ~**

It's twilight when I arrive at my final destination. The week's long journey was grueling, sitting in the sweltering heat of the closed up paddy wagon. When the doors open, I'm only given a few moments to breathe in the fresh air and feel the cool evening breeze on my sweating skin, before I'm taken directly into a receiving room. My driver hands a guard my intake papers.

Once there, I'm under the close supervision of three guards, as if I've somehow acquired a weapon and have gained a plan to escape while shackled with chains on my wrists and ankles. Their curious stares make me uncomfortable, like some freak show exhibit. I've lost weight, having no appetite since this whole ordeal began, and have been denied any chance to clean the dried sweat from my face or body. I must smell like a steaming pile of manure. Their interested gazes continue and I wonder if it's because they think I'm truly dangerous, until one makes a comment about never seeing a priest in prison before. That's when I understand the looks. Yes, I'm an aberration of the church.

A guard walks over to me and unlocks the shackles from both wrists and ankles. As I rub at the sweat and dirt on my wrists, I'm asked if I can read by a guard who seems to be reading from a checklist. For some reason, the question irritates me as I look up at him. I want to ask him if he's met a priest who couldn't read the Bible, but I hold my sarcasm and I answer with only a nod. I haven't spoken to anyone since I was sentenced.

I'm handed a little book of rules and told to read and memorize them. This book I intend to read cover to cover with the hope it will help ease the tension I feel and make this change easier. Another guard hands me a change of clothing and I'm ordered to strip. It's degrading, undressing in front of these men, but I have no say in the matter. I wish I would have been offered a shower, but that apparently isn't on the checklist.

Once I've changed into the scratchy white prison uniform, which includes a pair of socks, boots and a hat, I'm informed I have to get my hair cut. When I look up in confusion, I'm told it's to prevent the spread of lice. I'm taken to another room, where I'm ordered to sit as an inmate barber first cuts and then shaves my head. He seems to enjoy watching the horror, which must be evident in my expression. It's not from the vanity of losing my hair, but because the reality of where I am and what I'm condemned to has finally set in. This is my home now.

My mind is blank while he does his job. When he's done, he views me from every angle, then he smiles a toothless grin and winks as he hands me a mirror to see his handiwork, while he brushes off the stray bits of hair not caught by the apron. What I see first is a blindingly bald white head. It's the first time I've seen myself in so long. But it's my eyes that hold my attention. Once content and lively, they are now bleak, barren of all emotions, vacant of life. I don't recognize myself, yet I know it's me. The eyes do reveal a man's soul. Mine is empty.

I'm interrupted from my desolate thoughts by a command to leave the room. I follow the guards to another area where I'm handed a towel and a bar of soap. I'm informed I will get a new towel and change of clothes once a week. At least I'll be able to wash up now. Next, I'm led to the dormitory. Men crowded in row upon row of cells stacked with bunk beds and cots. I'm greeted by some of the inmates with wolf calls and whistles, some overly welcoming as they ask if I want to share a cell with them.

The guards' chuckle and one makes a comment about me being the new toy of the month. The other responds by wondering if I'll lose my virginity anytime soon. I'm shocked by the comments and a new fear creeps into my mind.

I lower my head, not making eye contact with anyone. I don't want to give the impression I'm interested in any of their suggestions. I'm led to a cell, which has three men inside with shackles around their ankles, but no chain. The door is opened and I enter without a word. When the door clanks shut behind me and I jump. I'm so far out of my element and comfort level as I take in the three men. I try to muster as much courage as possible, but I don't know what to do, what to say or what's expected of me.

"Well, lookie here, Blue. We got us another white boy to keep us company," says a large black man on my right.

"I'd say boy is right, Tiny. He's too skinny to be a man yet," answers the another black man about my height, but very muscular on my left.

"What's your name, boy?" I think it is Tiny who asks.

"Ed… Edward, Edward Masen," I mumble, my voice scratchy from little use, to the cell at large.

"Well, Edward Masen, what'cha in here for?" Tiny questions.

Lowering my head again, ashamed to speak the word, I whisper, "Murder."

Collective gasps surround me. I notice Blue backs up and I wonder if he's worried I'm some deranged lunatic and I might prove myself crazy to them. This actually scares me more. What if they gang up on me, deciding they don't want a murderer in their midst? I'll be dead before the sun rises.

A different voice, a deep, lazy, quiet one which I barely hear over the din of conversation throughout the dormitory, questions me with a curious chuckle, "Who are you supposed to have killed?" I look up at the voice and see a man of my height, but muscular, with blond hair about an inch or so in length, and clear blue eyes, arms crossed in front of him, his back leaning against a top bunk. His question startles me. He didn't seem to believe my answer. He actually sounded as if he thought the idea was ridiculous.

I grasp at the opportunity to tell this man the truth. I stare him straight in the eyes and pray, no, not pray, hope he believes me. Not wanting others to hear my reply, I softly speak, "A young woman in an alley. But, I didn't do it. I tried to save her life. I was on my way to becoming a fully ordained priest. I had only three weeks to go. I didn't do it." I practically beg him with my eyes to believe me as the words spew from my mouth.

I'm holding my breath as he holds my eyes. He's made a decision, but he gives nothing away. Finally, a small smile appears in one corner of his mouth and his low voice is confident, "I believe you." It's all he says, but it's enough to feel a little weight lift from my shoulders.

"Thank you," is my only response. I'm so grateful for those three little words.

"If Ace believes you, then I'm going to trust his word. I'm Frederick, Freddie Jones, but everyone calls me Tiny," he grins and holds out his enormous hand for me to shake. I'm relieved that I'll probably survive the night after all. I shift the towel and soap to my left hand and take his for a firm handshake.

"Well, Preacher Man, pleased to meet your acquaintance. I'm Harold Harrison, also known as Blue," and he, too, shakes my hand.

I turn to the man who I'm most grateful to meet. "Jasper, Jasper Grant. They call me Ace because I'm a gambler. Ace being the top card and also for ace in the hole," he grins. "Welcome to our little hellhole, Preacher Man."

"Again, thank you. To all of you. Thank you." I nod to him and then the others.

I'm told which bunk is mine. It's the one under Jasper's and I'm given a brief idea of what's expected in sharing a cell with the three of them. The cell itself is about 8'x 8', two bunk beds and a small sink and toilet. That's it. No shelves, no mirror, and the brick walls are bare.

We spend hours talking quietly under the dim lighting of the dormitory and I learn about each person and why they're here. Blue, who got his name because he loves music and sings well, especially the blues, was arrested and convicted for stealing bread he was trying to take to his starving children. His wife had left him a year earlier and he was just doing what he could to feed his two sons. He'd been here for two years and they would be 8 and 10 years old now. He has no idea what's happened to them. His only hope is his sister took them in. Tiny was arrested for vagrancy. He was standing on a corner waiting to cross the street and just like that, he was arrested. He had prior arrests and was known to the lawmen of his area. His previous arrests included public intoxication and disturbing the peace, which made him an easy target. And Jasper merely said a woman set him up and he was busted for possession of moonshine. She never learned to play nicely and forgot the golden rule of 'Do unto Others.'

I went into detail about what happened that fateful night and the trial that followed. Both Tiny and Blue looked surprised I didn't get the death sentence. Jasper looked at me from the foot of my bed and then shook his head. "The jury was going to say not guilty. My bet is someone on the jury let it slip and the judge or prosecutor found out. That's why he added the third degree charge. Someone wanted you found guilty. It gave those who didn't feel you did it with intent a chance to feel as if some justice was served."

"But why? Why not try to find the actual killer?" I can't help wondering out loud.

"Who knows? You said several other women had been killed. Maybe the actual killer is too smart. Maybe you were the closest they came to catching the actual doer. Maybe the judge or prosecutor was threatened and made you the scapegoat. Hell, maybe one of them knows the actual murderer. The reasons are endless," Jasper said, shrugging his shoulders.

I knew it was hopeless to dwell on his comments, but somehow they struck a note of truth. I never understood the additional charge and now at least I had an idea as to the reason. The one which made sense was I was made a scapegoat. I just didn't understand how a positive result was achieved by making me take the blame. The actual killer was still at large. Would this make the killer less likely to strike again? Did I possibly save another woman from dying in the future? If this is the case, then I might be able to find some peace of mind in this horrible situation.

That night I didn't sleep at all. Guards walked up and down the corridor, ensuring the rules were followed and everyone was in their bunks when the lights were turned down low. Every noise echoed throughout the floor. Some were talking in their sleep or snoring both loud and soft. Someone was yelling for the guard to allow them to take care of business. Many were moaning, awake and asleep, from aches and pains. I wondered how I would add to the cacophony of despair – and then decided I didn't want to know.

**~ J *+* D ~**

At 4:30 am, two guards came to wake those who were actually able to sleep. I get up after the other three. Then I wash my face and brush my teeth with my finger and then an edge of my towel. Next I take care of my other needs. Jasper tells me to follow him after we make up our beds. We walk into a large room with row upon row of tables. We stand in line and are given our ration of breakfast consisting of oatmeal and cornbread.

Jasper leads me to a table where Blue and Tiny are sitting with four other men. Tiny quickly and quietly introduces me as Preacher Man to the others as soon as we sit and those at the table acknowledge my presence. And then – nothing. No one in the dining hall talks. It's disconcerting. I look around noticing there are over a hundred men in the same room and the only thing you hear is the scraping of the utensils against the bowls. My mind is trying to take it all in when it dawns on me that no one uses their real name. It's as if you are christened anew for your time in prison. A place where you don't want to be and the real you no longer exists. It's not who you really are and you save your real name for when you are once again a free man. Then you will simply forget who you were in here. I immediately change my thinking on how I address the men.

After I choke down my breakfast, I follow Ace as we hand over our bowls and spoons. "Stay close to me," Ace softly commands, as we continue out through the wide double doors. We walk out into the large barren courtyard. It looks medieval. No trees or grass. Just dirt, rocks and a towering 12' high cinder block wall topped with barbed wire enclosing the yard. I stand with Ace, Blue and Tiny letting my gaze take in the men standing together in various groups.

A big, burly dark haired guard waves me over to him after he catches my attention. Once I reach him, he instructs me to stand in front of him. "I need you to lift one of your legs up here and line your ankle up with the manacle." He points to a big anvil, which holds an open manacle. I do as he asks and he clamps the large manacle around my ankle. I had barely gotten used to walking without a shackle on. Then he sticks a thick pin through the two holes and commands, "Don't move."

This is different from the simple locks that were easily opened with a key. This is permanent until I earn my freedom. One of his big hands turns and holds onto my foot to keep the manacle in place while the other wields a huge hammer. He unerringly strikes the metal bolt into place, smashing the smaller end against the anvil so it flares out, holding the manacle in place. I wince at the jarring pain in my ankle, as it brings tears to my eyes. He releases my ankle and I set it down gingerly on the ground. He kindly gives me a moment to catch my breath, not looking at me as he readies the next manacle. When he's done he raises his brows at me and I know I have to do the same on the other ankle. I blow out the breath I was holding and once I'm sure of my balance, I raise my other leg. I'm not going to lie; the second one wasn't any easier. In fact, I think it was harder knowing what was coming.

By 6:00 am, having stayed close to Ace, Blue and Tiny, we are herded into the rear of a large cage with wheels under it. A team of mules pulls it. There are about 16 of us in all, with more cages ahead and behind us. Everyone is quiet and I look to Ace wondering if this is normal. I don't know what I'm doing or what to expect. He explains I'm in for a long day of hard labor. There are armed guards whose sole job it is to watch the inmates from various positions, while others stay to the perimeters with vicious dogs on leashes. The walking bosses were the ones you had to watch out for. The walking bosses went from group to group making sure work was getting done. They usually carry a revolver, a knife and a whip, which has eight long lengths of rawhide with sharp edged silver dollars knotted to each end.

Ace quietly explains that there are two different forms of transportation. The cages that are pulled by trucks and those pulled by mules. The ones on trucks travel greater distances then those on mules. He then explains we are on our way to an area where a new road is being created. Each group is given a grid to work on and each group will consist of four men. We will be given a pick, a hoe and two shovels. A truck will stop at each section to haul away the debris. We'll be given a lunch break and a water break. That's it.

I nod my head, acknowledging I heard what he said, and think about this new life. It sounds so menial compared to what I'd hoped and planned for my future. I was already working up a sweat simply sitting in a hot crowded cage and it was still early morning. No one seems to speak and it's unnerving. I wonder if this is required or if there is just nothing to say.

When we arrive at our destination and leave the cage, a short man whom Ace said is named Captain Crowley, walks up to me.

"Hey you, pretty boy! How much time you got?" Crowley asks with a snicker.

"Life," I reply quietly, wondering why he called me pretty boy, I thought I was Preacher Man. I'm still filthy, not having had time for a proper wash this morning.

"Life, Sir!" He sneers.

"Life, Sir," I repeat quickly and politely.

He takes a newspaper clipping from his shirt pocket and waves it in front of my face.

"You were supposed to be a priest. A real honest to God, bona fide man of the cloth! Then you got caught in your little game of murdering a young woman, didn't you, pretty boy?" He speaks loud enough for everyone to hear. Insolently, I think to myself.

"Yes and no, Sir." I didn't know how I was supposed to respond. Ace said to only answer questions with a yes or a no, and nothing more. But I wasn't going to admit to something I didn't do.

"Yes and no, Sir, what?" Crowley demands a longer explanation.

"I was a priest, Sir. But I didn't kill the woman. I tried to save her life, Sir," I respond with more force behind my words, looking him in the eye. I don't understand where my sudden brazenness is coming from.

He walks right up to me, tilting his head up and pulls out his gun, digging it into my stomach. I flinch and step back. "Are you trying to get smart with me, pretty boy? Don't you know that every man here is innocent? Do I look stupid to you?" He barks.

"No, Sir!" I practically shout, stunned and now terrified that he's angry enough to pull a gun on me.

"You're going to have to learn proper respect around here, pretty boy. We don't take kindly to liars. Is that understood?" He asks with the gun still leveled at my stomach.

I thought he was going to hit me next, since his other hand was fisted, but instead he backhanded a man next to me. He was bigger than me by far in height and muscles. And he just stood there and took it.

"Yes, Sir," was all I could think to say, dumbfounded by what just occurred. An innocent man was hit because Captain Crowley thought I didn't respect him? I had always shown respect to people and was stymied as to how he misunderstood it. He glared at me again and then went down the line intimidating and harassing other men.

I whispered to the man next to me, "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. I'm very sorry."

At first, he eyed me as if I was insane. He must have seen the sincerity in my eyes, as he then accepted my apology and shrugged, "Not your fault. It is what it is." His easy acceptance of being assaulted for no reason confuses me even more.

Next, I hear Crowley yell for all of us to get to work. I turn around quickly to find Ace and closely follow him as he heads towards a truck. When we get there, I watch the dark haired, giant of a man who put on my manacles, chain a group of four men. On one end is a heavy looking round ball attached to a length of heavy chain about 12' long. With the men standing shoulder to shoulder facing away from him, he weaves the chain through a loop on the back of each of the manacles and then places a lock on the other end. After we are all bound in our groups, he hands out the work tools. He hands me a pick and I'm surprised by the weight. It immediately slips through my hands, leaving splinters embedded in them. I grab for the handle before it hits the ground and the big man chuckles.

I listen as the big man gives directions on where our grid is located. Ace explained our grid would be about 20' x 40' depending on the depth we needed to clear. Ace picks up the ball, since he was the first to have the chain attached and again, like the lamb I've become, I follow. But then again, I am chained to him and can't go anywhere else. He finally comes to a stop and says, "This is it. Let's see what you got." He nods for me to use the pick as Blue and Tiny move as far as the chain will allow.

I raise the pick to waist level and let it drop to the ground. I look down, along with my three chain mates, to see – nothing. Just a small divot appears from the pick tip in the ground. I frown and try again with the same result. Blue and Tiny start to snicker. I look up at Ace completely embarrassed. I don't know what I'm doing and it is painfully obvious.

Ace takes the pick from me and backs up a couple of feet. He grips the end tightly with both hands, and then lifts it above his head and swings it down in a wide arc, hard into the ground. Dirt and rock fly from the impact and a nice size hole is formed. He does it a few more times, moving a bit as he makes the hole larger. He hands the pick back and I try to imitate his movements. After about ten minutes, I'm sweating, wheezing and starting to feel the muscles in my arms and back tightening in protest from the exertion. But at least I was starting to break up the hard clay ground.

After about 30 minutes, my arms are shaking and I think I will pass out from the ache in them and the pain in my back. Ace reaches over before I am able to lift the pick again and takes it from me. "Okay, let me use the pick for a while. Take the shovel, and no matter what Crowley says or does, keep working and keep your mouth shut." I nod in understanding to both his requests.

I shoveled for hours, tossing the dirt into a wagon as the pick was passed around to Blue and Tiny. I got a second wind and was able to keep up better, though I have never been so sore. Ace whispered at one point, "You're learning. There are times when you want to give up or your body gives out. But, if you never allow it happen, you'll survive.

**~ J *+* D ~**

Two hours later, we were loaded into the cage again for the next location. I tried to figure out ways to convince Crowley that I wasn't trying to be disrespectful. It weighs heavily on my mind and I certainly don't want anyone else to get injured because of me. I figured the best I could do was to work really hard and continue to be polite. Eventually, he would see I was a good man.

There is a rule that you don't come within 30 feet of the guards. Never having measured distances before, when I jumped from the cage to begin the next project, I stumbled sideways a few feet on the uneven ground and I found myself inside the 30-foot area near Captain Crowley.

I froze when I heard the click of the hammer being pulled back on his gun. I looked up at him immediately realizing my error and ready to apologize. His look was apoplectic, stopping any words from escaping my mouth.

"Don't you dare try to come at me, you stupid bastard!" His rage was obvious and his shaking hand holding the revolver was aimed unsteadily at my head. "I have no qualms about taking your life. You understand me, pretty boy?"

I can only nod, but I think everyone heard the pounding of my heart as I slowly shuffled backwards away from him to get behind the imaginary 30-foot line.

Ace came up behind me, grabbed my shoulder, pulled me around and handed me the shovel. "Don't say anything. Just follow me and do what I do if you want to stay alive," he harshly whispered. And I did.

After a lunch of runny stew and cornbread, we were back on the road picking, shoveling and spading the hard ground in the hot sun. Two inmates started nit picking at each other on another grid. Then one started yelling at the other. Crowley went up to the one yelling and, with the butt of his gun, he belted him in the mouth, then his cheekbone and lastly, above an eye. He was so angry, he ordered Caius, a perimeter guard to shoot the next man who so much as cursed. He wanted a lesson taught and told him to take out a kneecap or foot from the next man.

The guard pulled up his rifle, cocked the hammer and started gazing through the sight. He took his time focusing on each and every one of us, before he stopped on the man who had already suffered at the hands of Crowley. Blood oozed from the cuts above his eye, cheek and mouth, running down his jaw and neck, soaking into his shirt. He had already spit out a front tooth.

"I don't shoot to make men cripples, Crowley. I only shoot to kill. You should know that about me by now." Caius replied with an evil smirk. For the rest of the afternoon, we all worked harder and faster and no one stopped for any type of break.

Once again we were loaded up in the cage. Only this time we were on our way back to the prison. I asked Ace, "Is Crowley always like that?"

"No, that was for you," he sighed.

"For me? What do you mean, for me?" I gasped. I didn't do anything to cause that. I followed Ace's orders and worked hard.

"Every time we get a new man he likes to throw his weight around. I call it little man syndrome. So you know exactly where you stand. Bones," he nods toward the man with the bloody face, "knows this, but he thought Crowley would go after Picker. You can never think you're right or safe. Rule number one out here on the gang, keep quiet unless you need to use the can," Ace stated firmly. Then he added, "Think of it as your baptism by fire. You're in the hellhole now. Never forget it."

I nod and rub my neck, then hiss in pain. It's so sunburned, it feels as if there are blisters rising under the dirt. Now I'm grateful not only Ace's guidance, but also the little white hat.

When we return to the courtyard and unload from the cage, we have to wait to get our chains removed. It's time for the evening meal and I follow Ace directly into the dining hall. We aren't even given the opportunity to wash the filth off our hands or faces. According to the rules, once you are given your food, you have only twenty minutes to eat it. Guards surround us with nightsticks in hand, lining the walls. There is one guard for every table. Even though I went through this, this morning, I can't get over the strangeness of a hundred or so men in a room together eating, and all you hear is the fork or spoon scraping against the plates echoing in the large room.

My hands defy my efforts to feed myself. They are shaking so badly from today's exertion. Holding a spoon is difficult, and the simple act of filling the spoon with peas and bringing them to my mouth – almost impossible. Finally, I give up and smash them with the spoon, eating them that way. The hash mixed with some sort of pork was easier to handle, but tasted horrible. I was starving, and at this point, I would have eaten dirt to fill my stomach.

After dinner, we are herded back to our cells, where the smell of a hundred or so dirty, sweaty humans almost made me lose my meal. I know I'm just as filthy and sweaty as they are, but the enclosed space is so hot, it only increases the horrendous odor I haven't gotten used to it yet. Ace entered our cell first, climbing up onto his bunk to open a small barred window. I notice most of the other cell mates did the same thing. The relief is almost instantaneous as the smell is forcefully expunged from the dormitory and then a cross breeze cleanses the air.

I patiently wait for the other three to wash up first. I'm low man in this hierarchy and, after the eye opening viciousness of Crowley, I'm not about to get any of them riled up at me. When it's my turn, with no washcloth, I use the soap to wash as best I can. With no mirror to see the dirt I missed, and the dust from my clothes, when I dry off, my towel is filthy. I have to use this same towel for a week. Again, I feel nauseous. It's another lesson learned. Next time I wash up, my whole head is getting washed. I try to rinse out the dirt to no avail. When I'm done, I hang my towel over a bar by my pillow.

I attempt to find a comfortable position as I stretch out on the bunk, trying to ease the pain in my back and the sting of the sunburn on my neck. My mind shies away from the knowledge I have to do this again tomorrow. I really hope I can survive this. But, if I'm here for life, do I really want to? I startle myself with the thought. Of course I do. Sam and Rose both reassured me they were not done. They are going to appeal my case and to not give up hope. Hope, do I dare? Praying certainly didn't save me. It's then I realize, all I have left is hope.

**~ J *+* D ~**


	10. Chapter 10

**To Lilith and Ficfangirl; I couldn't do this story without you both. Thank you so much. All errors are mine since I fidget with the words after edits. **

**This chapter brings all the characters up to present. Thank you for reading, PMing and especially those who review. I very much appreciate it very much. **

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**Labor disgraces no man; unfortunately, you occasionally find men who disgrace labor."**

**~ Ulysses S. Grant ~**

**Chapter 10**

**Bringing Jasper up to the present**

**Ace**

It's been two and a half months since I started my five year sentence. You would think by this time I would have become accustomed to the constant aches and pains which plague my body. You would think I could ignore the moans and groans of the other inmates. You would think I could shrug off the knowledge that every day a man is beaten or brought down to his knees. You would think I'd be able to forget Cracker, my first of many chain mates. But you would think – wrong.

Even though Cracker was the only one I detested during my short time here, he was still a human being. I just couldn't respect a man who willing goaded the guards into abusing him. He was Crowley's favorite victim and Cracker seemed to appreciate it. Since I was chained to him day in and day out, it was no wonder I found myself on the receiving end of the whip. I quickly learned to side step their little game. Unfortunately, Tiny, Blue and I were forced to carry his sorry ass to the cage and back to the cell. We spent more time taking care of him than ourselves. I would have had sympathy for him at least, if he would have given up his taunting ways. Anyone could see he wasn't long for the world.

Crowley is a bulky man of short stature with a sadistic nature. He gets his jollies taking on the larger black men, watching them grovel, whimper and bleed, so long as he has his whip, gun and knife protecting him. He also gets a thrill out of beating the insolent, weak ones, and Cracker fit the bill. Those two were a peach of a pear.

Crowley once caught me off guard when I first arrived and I felt his whip. But only once. It hurt like a son of a bitch. When he tried a second time, I was ready. I turned, grabbing a few strands before it reached my back and wrenched it out of his hand. The look I gave him was murderous as I expertly coiled the whip with the handle in my hand. His eyes lowered from mine and steadily watched my movements, understanding immediately that I knew how to use it. I didn't deserve the punishment and I'd be damned if I would suffer a second time.

Crowley was in one of his piss poor moods. Cracker, who was too weak to even lift a shovel, was slowing down our crew. He should have been in the infirmary as anyone could tell. He was feverish and not lucid, but Crowley wanted him on the work detail. As the day wore on he was regretting it. We were already an hour longer in getting back to the prison, so he decided to have another go at me. Luckily, when I made my move there wasn't another guard in the vicinity and I could have easily retaliated. I could have been on him so fast, taken his gun and killed him before he said, boo. He knew it, too. I saw the panicked look, plain as day, in his beady little eyes. And even though the other two men were willing and able to make a run for it, we weren't out far enough to make it safely. Especially with Cracker attached to us. I threw the whip down at his feet. "Don't you ever attempt to use me as your whipping post. Because I swear, the next time, you won't be so lucky."

Crowley and I came to an understanding that day, right quick. He didn't like me nor did he like my threat, but at least he respected me and was cautious of being too close. Sure, he could waylay me while the other guards where around and seek retribution. But revenge is a double edged sword and he knows I would bide my time and strike when he least expected it. Crowley would never admit it, but I suspect he had a grudging respect for those less fortunate who stood up for themselves. Maybe I reminded him of himself. Our gentlemen's agreement was all I needed or cared about. It wasn't surprising I became the man who the other inmates wanted to be chained to. I was a safe harbor in this tumultuous abyss known as the chain gang.

Cracker, or James, passed away due to infections caused by open wounds and our filthy working and living conditions. In the short time I've been here, I've already witnessed four deaths. All of them could have been prevented. All of them had a right to live. All of them were treated as if they were a waste of humanity.

Yet, for every man who has been severely injured or died, another one or two seem to appear the next day to replace them. It makes you realize how worthless your life has become out here on the chain gang. I'm still shaking my head at our newest cellmate. He was a priest for crying out loud. Of all the insane things I've witnessed, I'd have never seen this coming.

I know when a man's lying, bluffing or speaking the truth. I know the difference between a white lie, half-truths and a tall tale. I didn't become a professional gambler on good looks alone. No! You have to watch how a man stands, leans or sits. Muscles tight or relaxed? How he cocks his head, or juts his chin. If his lip curls in frustration, or glee, or if he thinks he's being sneaky. Does his nose flare in anger, does his brow slightly furrow, or do his eyebrows almost meet in deep concentration? Does he use a hand on his face scratching his nose, wiping sweat from his forehead, or biting his nails? But it's the eyes that are the most telling. Do they meet yours when giving an answer, swerve to the side, or look over your shoulder fixed on some distant object? So many emotions can be expressed within the blink. They say the eyes don't lie, and I know this to be true. Even when you lie, the eyes will reflect the truth of the lie.

A more innocent man I have never seen than Preacher Man. When he told us what he was in for, albeit nervous, he was straightforward in his answer. When he explained his story, it was clear as day he didn't commit the crime. It made me question the type of legal system we had in place, which allowed circumstantial evidence to take precedence over a doctor who gave up his life's work for a stranger's defense. Every man here has broken the law in one fashion or another. None of us are guilt free or sinless, except for this man. There is no way on this God forsaken earth he murdered the woman. I would bet my life on it.

**~ J *+* D ~**

Preacher Man's first day out was a disaster waiting to happen. I'm just as determined, though, not to let him fall like Cracker did. For all I try to stay out of everyone else's business and only take care of myself, I find I can't keep myself from trying to help him. He doesn't belong here. He is completely out of his element. Thankfully, he took my advice, stayed focused, and willingly did what I asked him to do. The only time he questioned one of my comments was the incident with Bowie, and rightly so. He wasn't used to the viciousness of men, especially those of Crowley's ilk. He didn't like being the cause of another man being hit. I respect him for it. It will keep him alert when the next new arrival comes.

Preacher Man is currently lying on his bunk studying his copy of the rule book. I think my copy is somewhere underneath my mattress. Tiny and Blue are on the top bed of their bunk, playing a game of cards. I lay back on mine thinking about my trial. For the millionth time I think of Maria and wonder what she was up to. I know she is the reason for my new working and living conditions. She could have easily paid my bail and saved my ass. The only possible reason that makes sense is someone was on to her. Since I refused to become her something more, she decided I was expendable, along with Peter and Charlotte. Her way of throwing out the trash and starting with a clean slate. I'd lay odds she already has a new still up and running. I'd even wager Jared is actually running it.

I force my mind to change directions. I don't really want to think about the bitch. It's not conducive to relaxing, and Lord knows I need to get some rest before another exhausting day comes. Instead, I think about Peter and Charlotte. Hopefully, they are safe on the plantation. They are the only ones who know about my home. When they look around, they'll understand how much it means to me. My thoughts drifts to my parents. I look so much like my mom, as I'm sure they'll see from her portrait hanging above the main fireplace. I think about the rooms I used to race though when I was knee high to a grasshopper, avoiding furniture in my mad dash to escape my laughing father trying to catch me. I wonder which room they've settled in. I refuse to think they didn't make it out of the tunnel. I sigh to myself. Hopefully, there were some chickens still around for fresh meat or eggs and they're making themselves at home.

There is no doubt in my mind they are doing exactly what I asked. If I wasn't able to meet up with them at the café, they were to head to the plantation. They were to sit and wait. I told them I would eventually get word to them of my whereabouts, then I would tell them the next step. I can see Peter in my mind's eye and I know he will be trying to find me. He has too much energy, and is too impatient to lay low for an extended period of time, especially if he thinks he can help me one way or another. I just hope he covers his tracks like I taught him.

Preacher Man mentioned his lawyers said they wouldn't give up on seeking justice for him and gaining his release. If I'm lucky, they'll visit and I'll get Preacher Man to pass a letter on to them to mail to Peter and Charlotte. Preacher Man's case reeks to high heaven of him being railroaded by the judge and I can't imagine his lawyers not following through with his appeal.

He's finished with the rule book. It's a really quick read. I have all the rules memorized. We're given two hours before the lights are turned low. It's the time for talking with your cellmates or those in cells close by. Games are permitted such as chess, checkers or dominoes. Very few of the inmates have these games. The ones who do, don't like to share, unless you trade your clean pair of socks for a week's worth of playing time. Very few of the men do. It would mean going barefoot in the boots, causing blisters and more suffering. Reading is also allowed. Newspapers are usually shared. Books are materials for trade. Visitors know books, decks of cards, dice and other items can be used for barter and those who can afford it, bring them for their incarcerated relative or friend.

The main rules are in regards to theft, alcohol, lying, gambling, vulgarity and profanity which are strictly forbidden. Preacher Man asked for a more detailed explanation. After today's events, I bet he has the rules memorized and he's not taking any chances of screwing up. I appreciate and understand his apprehension, so I start with stealing, which is the most commonplace. It usually happens when one of the inmates is first to finish his supper and quickly enters the cell block before the one who has something he wants. During the day, the cell doors are left wide open so those who mop the floors or are punished by cleaning the sinks and toilets have free reign to indulge in five finger pick up. If a guard doesn't like you or wants a little sport, they will set up the inmate, claiming they were caught stealing and use him like a punching bag or practice their skills with the whip.

I haven't seen much drinking or drug use, but the others have. Usually, it's by an inmate who works directly under the Warden. They're known as a snitch, bird or stool pigeon. So you keep your eyes open for someone who looks too content for these conditions.

Next on the list is vulgarity and I asked Preacher Man to listen. Throughout the cell block you can hear the profanity and some of the men being very crude in their story telling skills. Wives and girlfriends are being discussed in the most carnal way. So many exaggerated stories of one's sex life are being told. Nothing is sacred. Sex with men, children, sisters, animals and each other. When Preacher Man was listening to one man detailing his expertise with his tongue and how well he satisfies the ladies, he gasped, and then blushed bright red. Yeah, I'm sure that was an eye opener, I chuckle to myself. I also inform him that it's wise for him to watch his backside when not in the cells. He looked questioningly at me not understanding the subtle message. I asked if he understood the act of sodomy and again his shock and embarrassment is evidenced by the reddest blush I've ever seen on a man. It was really quite humorous. "Nothing is sacred in here Preacher Man."

There is some rhyming and singing from various corners of the cells. These are informal groups who create songs for in the dormitory and on the road. Poetry is descriptive of the harsh life inside and outside the prison wall or their desires for women.

Gambling is prohibited, but it doesn't stop these men. They play for extra underwear on clothing exchange day, a sandwich smuggled from the kitchen or a box of matches and tobacco. But most guards don't seem to mind. Mostly the talk is about your sentence, your trial or how you were framed. The details are related to anyone who will listen. Hearing each man's story kills a lot of time. Most of the men are here for vagrancy. Being an unemployed black man standing around on the sidewalk is enough to get you thrown in here.

When our fellow prisoners learned a priest was in our midst, Preacher Man wasn't condemned for taking a woman's life. Instead he was asked important questions like "does God exist? Is there a heaven or hell?" What surprised me most was his answer. "I used to be able to answer your question with a resounding yes. But now, I'm here for a crime I didn't commit. The God I believed in didn't protect me. I think heaven and hell are here on earth," he inhales through his nose, looking down and shaking his head. "We're all in hell."

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**Life is for living and working at. If you find anything or anybody a bore, the fault is in yourself."**

**~ Elizabeth l ~**

**Bringing Bella, Alice, Emmett and Seth to the present**

**Bella**

Surprisingly enough, it didn't take long for me to lower my defenses in our new location. The house we rent is a nice sized craftsman style home with indoor plumbing. Since it's set back from the road, I'm relaxed enough to enjoy the large front porch, dressed as Billy, of course. We contacted Renee and Mr. McCarty, who kept their word and sent our bedroom furnishings. Alice, during her stay with us in Florida, had used her spare money to buy her own used bedroom set. Seth had stored his in Mr. McCarty's shed. For the first month, we all slept on the floor in our rooms until the highly anticipated delivery finally arrived. The first night of sleeping in my bed again was one of the best nights I'd had.

We didn't go all out when we bought items for the house. We did, however, pool our monies together to furnish the kitchen with the necessary pots and pans, while purchasing a large used davenport and two overstuffed chairs for the main room. While I was comfortable here, I kept my mind open to the fact I might need to pick up and run. I hate this side of myself. I hate the anxiety that sits in a corner of my mind and never rests. I can't wait for the day Riley Biers will no longer be a harbinger of death. I want to relax and just be me.

The City of Bessemer is an industrial town with steel plants being its main source of employment. It was originally named Brooklyn, but was changed in honor of Sir Henry Bessemer, a British scientist who achieved fame for his contribution to the steel making process.

Emmett's job has him working four days on and then two days off. Seth is home almost every night by 6 pm, unless there is a job that needs to be completed sooner. Then there is Alice.

It fell to Billy to drive Alice to and from work. She works for Mr. William J. Murphy, who is an embalmer and mortician. He owns several funeral parlors and Alice has been sent to work at many of them after Mr. Murphy became confident of her skills.

Originally, she had to fight tooth and nail to get the job. Mr. Murphy is a proud, hardworking black man, who services the needs of black communities. He wasn't thrilled with the idea of hiring a white woman nor was he sure his clients would accept her caring for their family members. The majority of his clients were at one point or had family member who were slaves. They didn't trust anyone who was white. Not that I could blame them. For Alice, it was a form of prejudice in reverse. To prove her worth, she spent half a morning preparing and working with one of the deceased. Mixing colors on her palette and carefully applying cosmetics with Mr. Murphy closely monitoring her. That afternoon, a service was held for the loved one and the family was overjoyed with the woman's natural beauty and peaceful expression. When Mr. Murphy introduced Alice to the family they thanked her profusely and at that point Mr. Murphy hired her.

It's been weeks since that first day and Alice thoroughly enjoys her job and the pay is very good. She was right, people do tip her for making their loved ones look serene and content. She truly doesn't mind working with a stiff body, but she does wear gloves. She said the coldness at times would catch her off guard and cause her to smear some of the makeup. I have to admit the first time I saw the body of the woman, it spooked me a little.

I, on the other hand, have a part time job working in the evenings as a dishwasher in a hotel closer to Birmingham. I don't mind scouring the pots and pans or scrubbing at the food encrusted dishes. I'm left alone and simply lock up when I'm done. But it isn't exciting. I miss the simple interactions I had with people in general as a hawker of papers or even the deliveries of documents for Mr. McCarty. I am, however, limited in the jobs I can handle as Billy. I've decided I do like my hair long. It is my way of retaining a small essence of my true self. So any job I take on has to allow me to wear a hat since I wasn't ready to be me yet.

The not so subtle hints Alice is always dropping has me thinking more and more about singing. I have to admit, Billy isn't exciting anymore. It used to be fun being out of the house and hanging around with Emmett, Seth and Alice as we'd laugh at the people I fooled. It's now second nature to walk, talk and be Billy. At home, when someone calls me Bella, I don't even answer sometimes, I've become so submerged in his persona. I'm tired of walking in Billy's shadow. The idea of becoming a female again is very intriguing and singing has always been something I enjoyed.

Alice will regularly make me up using the blonde wig and I'm amazed how liberating it is to become a young woman again. Her skilled hands reshape my eyes, heighten my cheekbones and make my lips look fuller to resemble a mysterious woman from foreign land. Alice first named the look 'Helen,' for the face that launched a thousand ships. I snorted in laughter. "Bella, you can't snort when you're a glamorous woman. It's unbecoming." This only increased my mirth. Alice rapped the back end of her brush on the top of my head. That stopped my laughter as she muttered, "You need to learn all over again how to be a female. You're going to have to learn to flirt, bat your eyes, tilt your head coquettishly and gently sway your hips."

I stared at her, as my jaw dropped. "Why?" I finally squeak out.

"Because, if you're going to be a singer, you also need to be a performer. You need to make a man think you're only singing to him. Make him feel special so that he'll want to come back and see you again. The more nights you perform, the more money you'll make. The more money men spend, the more the bar or club makes, which will mean more tips for you. You have to sell yourself."

"Alice, I don't like the idea of selling myself. It sounds licentious." I shiver at the thought.

"I'm not suggesting selling your body! I'm talking about selling the act. You have everyone convinced there is a young man named Billy. You've sold me with your acting skills and I helped you create him. So, in order for you to become, oh say...," She gazes at me in the mirror, her hands on either side of my head turning it this way and that, "Tanya, then you need to become her. You don't need an accent, but change up your voice. Instead of deep and gruff like Billy, maybe make it throaty. Don't giggle, chuckle softly. Instead of striding with purpose, be almost sedate in your walk."

I pushed myself away from the dressing table and tried to mimic the walk the way Alice suggested. Alice breaks into laughter.

"What?" I bat my eyes at her.

"You have Tanya's head, wearing Billy's clothes, and walking like a woman. It's so wrong!" And she's holding her sides laughing harder as I look down at Billy's attire. I wink at her, which does her in and she falls into the chair in hysterics.

I leave her there cackling away, as I head to the wardrobe in my room. I don't have anything stylish to wear, but I do have a few dresses. It takes time to remove the layers of clothing and unbind myself. Finally, I'm dressed again, but barefooted, as I return to Alice's room.

She still has the giggles as she's putting away her make up in its case. As I enter, she looks up, smiling widely and assesses my change of clothes. "That's better, but we're going to have to find you more appropriate evening wear and heels. We'll visit the second hand shops this weekend and see what we can find."

**~ J *+* D ~**

We did visit the consignment and second hand shops located in the higher end area of Birmingham. We found three dresses, three corsets, two pairs of heels and two pairs of long gloves which are perfect for Tanya. For Bella…not so much. When Alice would me dress up, I became more confident that I could pull this off.

During the day while everyone else is working, I occasionally visit a shop which sells instruments and sheet music. If I'm going to be a true performer, I've decided I need to learn a wide variety of songs. I've bought various sheets of music which caught my attention from vaudeville to Broadway musicals, including popular songs by George M. Cohen. I'm learning songs which are currently in favor from the Great War such as 'Over There,' to softer melodies such as 'I'm Always Chasing Rainbows.' Some songs are happy or tongue in cheek, while others are sultry or romantic. When I return home, I practice the new ones as they were written, while others I change, creating my own style on a cheap upright piano I purchased.

One evening, when all of us happened to be home together and after about a month's worth of practicing, I decided to put on a little show after supper. Alice helped me with my makeup and I dressed up. Alice was excited and even though it was just Emmett and Seth waiting downstairs; who hadn't yet seen Tanya, I was still a nervous wreck. What if they thought I looked foolish? Like a young girl playing in her mother's clothes. Worse yet, what if they laughed at my attempt to be alluring? Alice didn't tell the guys what I was up to and she interrupted my worries by calling up, "Billy, are you coming down or what?"

That was the motivation I needed. I wasn't Billy tonight. I was Tanya, and it was time to let her come into her own.

As I made my way down the stairs, I noticed Emmett and Seth were in a conversation regarding their jobs. I had the element of surprise on my side, so I went for it. In a practiced low, feminine voice I asked, "Whose Billy? I thought you were anxious to see me, Alice."

Both Emmett and Seth whipped their heads in my direction as I reached the final step. Gently swaying my hips as I glide towards the fireplace, I watch their expressions carefully. First is surprise, and then delight, as Tanya gracefully approaches and I tilt my head in acknowledgment of their attention. Lowering my voice, I husk out, "Hi boys, I was hoping I'd get to meet you tonight." I smile in what I hope is a sultry manner. Emmett's mouth drops open and Seth starts chuckling at my boldness. Alice is grinning and lightly clapping her hands, hopping up and down on her toes.

I smile at her encouragement and go for broke when I huskily inquire, "I'm only here for a one night. Alice suggested you might be interested in letting me entertain you with a few songs." I purr, "Was she right?" Emmett and Seth both grin broadly and nod their fool heads off.

Then I lose it. I start laughing hysterically and so do the others. "I'm sorry, that just doesn't sound like me." I'm finally able to gasp out.

"That voice did sound funny coming from you. If I didn't think of you like a sister, but a real woman, I would have been very happy to hear more of it," Seth sniggered.

"Hey, what do you mean like a real woman?" I snip at him. Suddenly I'm no longer laughing.

"What he means…Tanya, is it? Is your charming voice is believable, but outrageous to us coming from you. I don't think either of us can get Billy out of our heads. The feminine you has been away for too long." Emmett laughs again and Seth nods in agreement.

I frown for a minute and realize they speak the truth. They pretty much only think of me as Billy. I'm not the real me anymore. I make a silent vow to myself, then and there, that I will start being me more at home. I need to grow up and not let Riley control so much of my life. But, I'm not quite ready to venture outside as Bella.

"Sing some songs for us, Tanya. I've been waiting forever to hear what you chose." Alice smiles, reminding me I need to practice, and instantly snapping me out of my little hissy fit.

Alice wanted me sing as I normally would, but add a sultry flare to it, so I did. I only sang a few songs. The last one I crooned was a lovely number about missing my man. I lightly flirt with Emmett, but wind up perched on the side of Seth's chair, teasing him a little just to prove I can act like a woman. As the last note hangs in the air, the room is silent. I slowly rise from Seth's side and walk towards the stairs, glancing over my shoulder at all of them with a wink and a smile.

The room is still silent when I reach the stairs and I'm worried I made a complete and utter fool of myself. Alice is the first to react by clapping loudly and grinning widely. "That was amazing, Tanya. Simply brilliant."

Emmett is whistling, while Seth is calling for an encore, and both are clapping now. Relief instantly washes away my doubts. My three friends wouldn't be reacting this way unless they honestly felt I deserved it. Perhaps more exciting, it was me singing. It was my voice they enjoyed. It was a part of me, the real Bella, only dressed up as Tanya.

**~ J *+* D ~**

Seth came with me on Monday, when I answered the most promising ad for an entertainer needed Fridays through Sundays, in a nightclub called The Quake. It was aptly named, since Birmingham was hit by a 5.1 earthquake just last year. It was felt as far away as Atlanta. Prior to that, it was called Magic City in honor of Birmingham's nickname. It was only ten miles away from home, on the outskirts of Birmingham, which was perfect for my requirements.

The owner took one look at Tanya and begged her to audition right there and then. I really think he was so enamored with Tanya's looks that I could have screeched out a song and walked like a lumber jack and still been hired. After I sang, I was offered the job at twice the wage printed in the ad and in cash. I was happy that I didn't have to worry about giving my real name if I were to receive a pay check. According to the owner, they hadn't had a talented and beautiful woman of my caliber and he was sure I would bring in the crowds. I was told I could have a tip jar and keep all the money as long as I started that weekend. I couldn't turn it down. I'd be making five times what I was earning as a dishwasher. In addition to the astonishing amount of money I'd make, I was given a little room behind the stage area to change clothes. I easily accepted after I saw the dressing room and was so glad I did.

The owner introduced me to the musicians. I gave them a list of songs I would be singing, and the band members were familiar with most of the tunes. We practiced several times over the next few days in preparation.

**~ J *+* D ~**

The first two nights were harrowing and it took me a while to become confident in front of such a large audience. The owner had remarked several times how he would like to see more interaction between me and the crowd. For me to leave the stage and be more personable. Other than those comments, he was incredibly happy with my performances and the revenue. It was Sunday night, and when Alice finished creating Tanya, she told me I was attracting men like bees to pollen. I really didn't believe her. I should have listened. I didn't think there would be so many men crowded into the club. Word must have gotten around that there was new talent in the neighborhood. All the tables were packed and the rest of the customers were standing at the bar or lining the walls two and three deep. I was behind the thin stage curtain trying to see where Emmett and Seth were. I eventually spotted them. They were sitting at different tables. Emmett was talking and smiling with a large, dark haired, dark eyed man, while Seth sat alone waiting for Alice to join him.

When the lights dimmed, she whispered, "Break a leg," and left to join Seth. The music started from the four piece house band. The first song was a slow melody which helped quiet the crowd. All eyes were on the stage. Instead of making a grand entrance, I started singing from behind the curtain, gathering my nerves before facing the crowd. It seemed as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting to view Tanya. I needed to be bolder. I shoved down my shyness and became her. I let go with a long note as I pushed away the curtains, entering the stage with a flourish. The audience went crazy, hooting and clapping, welcoming the songstress and I began to relax as I finished the first song.

By the end of the night, I had them eating out of my hands. I flirted a little with coy smiles and winks to some of the older men and joked with some of the women. No one was ignored. I learned quickly though that there were many men who enjoyed grabbing onto my skirt or trying to hold my hands. It made me extremely uncomfortable and I had to quickly move away. My safety net was Emmett and Seth. The man sitting with Emmett had wandering hands. Emmett slid between us effectively loosening his hold and I was able to move on. He didn't appreciate the grateful smile I threw Emmett during a sassy little number, as I left their table and sashayed my way around the room. Twirling away from grabby men and paying more attention to the women.

At the start of the final song, I moved to Seth and Alice's table. I was playing a bit with the both of them and by the time the last note was sung, I was back on the stage. The appreciative noise from the crowd was impressive. The clapping, whistling and cheers gave me a sense of accomplishment and eased some of my frayed nerves. I knew I could do this and I enjoyed making the people happy.

After curtseying, thanking the band, and giving a final wave to the crowd, I left for the dressing room. Alice had left her table before the final verse and was waiting in the dressing room. My head was dizzy with excitement and I wore the biggest grin when I saw Alice waiting for me. We both squealed and laughed at how well the evening went. That was until we heard the pounding on the door and Seth's voice from the other side. "Tanya, sweetie, you have about three minutes to get out of this room and into the sedan before a brawl breaks out among the men demanding a personal audience with you."

Alice and I both froze for about five seconds until my fight or flight instinct took over. I wasn't prepared to socialize with anyone. Alice quickly unpinned the wig while I removed my heels. She stuffed the wig in a small travel bag she used for her make-up, while I pulled on Billy's overcoat and slammed his hat on my head, while pushing my feet into his shoes. Within a minute, we were out the door in the darkened hall. Seth was leaning against the wall with his arms folded. He didn't say anything, just jutted his chin towards the exit. If he was keeping quiet, so were we. We both turned and headed through the back door exit and ran for the sedan.

I hopped into the driver's seat while Alice cranked the handle. Luckily, the vehicle started right up and we were well on our way towards home within Seth's three minute deadline. The adrenaline coursing through my system was replaced with fear. I kept one eye on the rearview mirror and one on the road. When we were about five miles from home and no one was behind us, I began to relax. Letting out a loud whoosh of air, I quickly glanced at Alice. She was sitting against the door eyeing me in concern. I was about to tell her I didn't think I could sing again. I was thrilled with how well the evening went, the whole weekend in fact, but I didn't think I could handle the stress of evading the advances of unknown men. Not dressed as Tanya, at least.

"Don't say it," Alice said, breaking the quiet.

She knew exactly what I was thinking. "But Alice…," I began.

"No! Don't say it. We need to know what happened. We won't know until Seth and Emmett get home. Let's just wait to hear what they have to say. Okay? Promise me not to make your mind up until we hear what happened," she begged.

I honored her request for the rest of the drive home. Once we arrived, I immediately hung up my hat and coat, then went into the bathroom to wash away the makeup. Next, I went into my room and changed into Billy's clothes. For some reason, it made me feel safer. About 15 minutes later, Seth was home and announced. "Emmett will be arriving shortly. Right now he's trying to calm down his boss," he says, shaking his head.

"Why? What happened?" I wonder if Emmett is still employed and if his boss was his companion at the table.

"Tanya happened," is Seth's cryptic reply with a small smile.

**~ J *+* D ~**

"**Expectation is the root of all heartache."**

**~ William Shakespeare ~**

**After Edward Masen's trial**

**Rose**

I couldn't believe Mr. Masen was sentenced to the convict lease program. I'm still furious. Judge Banner, as far as I was concerned, had a lot of explaining to do. I noticed on two separate occasions his silent communication with one of the jury members. I know there was collusion involved, but I was still trying to work out the reasons behind it. Once again, I had pages filled with questions just waiting for an answer. Who was the juror? What was his relationship to Judge Banner? What did he gain? What did Banner gain? The questions crowding my mind took 30 minutes to write down. Once my head was cleared, I looked at my notes and devised a plan of attack.

I didn't lie to Mr. Masen. I would not give up on his case. I didn't need money. This was a matter of principle and needing to ensure justice was properly served. I would see him freed at any cost and I know Sam is of the same mind set. Unfortunately, Sam can't leave our other clients high and dry. I've already completed the factual investigation portion of our open cases and he just needs to cover the legal aspect. We have an agreement, he's not taking on any new cases that will require any investigation work on my part. Mr. Masen's case is too important to both of us. It falls to me to seek answers to my questions. A task I gladly accept.

My first order of business is to find out who the juror was. I return to the courthouse after the weekend to look up the jurors' names. The only information available is their names, ages and addresses. Seven were easily discarded as they were much too old to be the juror I'm looking for. Of the five remaining, I decide to run a circuit and visit each of them.

The first day I was able to track down two who happened to be home when I arrived. Neither were the man I was looking for. One man kindly informed me that most were in agreement that Mr. Masen did not commit first degree murder. However, one juror convinced enough of them that he should at least be convicted of the third degree charge. He didn't remember the man's name, but I did find out that one member was employed in law enforcement and it was he who was Mr. Masen's greatest benefactor in not receiving the death sentence. It seems the juror I was looking for and the law enforcement officer were at odds from the beginning.

The next day, I find the studio apartment of one of the men. No one answers to my repeated knocking. A woman down the hall informs me that the gentleman who lived there has gone. I asked his name and verify this was Charlie Swan's residence. I'm also told he's employed by the city of Houston as a constable. I'm thrilled to find the man who was Mr. Masen's biggest ally, until I reach the local precinct where Constable Swan worked, only to learn he's taken a leave of absence. I ask when he was expected to return and his supervisor just shook his head in frustration, "I can't answer that, Ma'am. He was extremely upset with the trial of the priest, the newspaper stories, and the mentality of those in and outside the courtroom. I'm not sure when he will return, if ever. He's a good man and an excellent officer. I'd hate to lose him."

Disgruntled, I leave the precinct and visit the boarding house next on my list. Again, I'm stymied when I'm told Mr. Eric Yorkie is no longer living there. The landlord has no idea where he went and he wasn't given any indication if he would return. Mr. Yorkie once mentioned he was living New Orleans, so maybe he went back home. I asked him if we were talking about a man of medium height, with a lean build, black hair and dark eyes. He confirmed my description and I knew I had found my man.

Even more interesting, Mr. Yorkie only rented the room for one month. It was as if he came here specifically for the trial, and as soon as it was over he was gone. Was he a resident of New Orleans or Houston? You can't be on a jury if you aren't a resident of the county where the trial is being held. Was there another address that wasn't given to the registrar's office, maybe his real address here in the Houston area? More questions than answers are again assailing my mind. Was his real name even Eric Yorkie? But more importantly, where was he now?

**~ J *+* D ~**


End file.
